WELCOME! BENVENUTI!

Jenne' Andrews is an American poet. She has three published chapbooks including the recent Blackbirds Dance in the Empire of Love, Finishing Line Press 2013.

A full-length collection, Reunion, Lynx House Press, was published in 1983; after a long hiatus to raise Golden Retrievers in Colorado, recent work has appeared in The Passionate Transitory, Belletrist Coterie, The Adirondack Review and Vox Populi, a journal of culture, politics and poetry published and edited by the august Michael Simms.

A bilingual collection of "Italiana," Bocca, Voce, Delirio, with translations by Lorenzo Luciani, will be released by Finishing Line at the end of 2016 and her latest collection, And Now, the Road, a finalist for the Autumn House prize in 2014, will be released by Salmon Poetry Ltd, Ireland, a highly regarded international house, Jessie Lendennie, Publisher, circa 2017.

Andrews holds the MFA in Creative Writing/Poetry from Colorado State University, is a literary fellow of the National Endowment for the Arts, and was full-time Poet in Residence for the St. Paul Schools from '74-78. She lived in St. Paul from 1971-78 during the first wave of the Twin Cities literary renaissance, and spent the summer of 1973 in Reggio Calabria, Italy.

The poet lives in northern Colorado's Poudre River Valley with her husband, fiction writer Jack Brooks; the couple has recently imported two British Golden Retrievers and expects a litter in June-- see the Ardorgold website for details. Contact: jenneandrews2010@gmail.com .

Thursday, June 30, 2011

Poem for Thursday - Psalm for the Lost Child











Psalm for the Lost Child

My hands are bloody from digging.
I lift them, hold them open in the wind,
so they can branch like a tree.

Reaching, these hands would pull you out of the sky
as if you had shattered there,
dashed yourself to pieces in some wild impatience.

What is this I feel falling now,
falling on this parched earth,
softly,
like a spring rain?


Rainier Maria Rilke,  Digging for God, The Book of Hours II, 34


The heart extends her witching stick

Where might love be found?

With innocence, in the cradle
Where the infant rocks
With her small moony head

Reflected, as in the eyes
Of the old horse shifting
Foot to foot, looking out
At the green fields

In the hands as they gather
The rinsed white shirts up
And pin them to the line

As they knead and knead
Until the dough glistens

So that something new is made
Where nothing was?

I have grasped at the sky
With my infinitely sad fingers
I wear the alphabet of the stars
As a necklace.

I have sewn a rainbow
Stretched it over the heavens
An Aurora Borealis.

But tell me, how shall I recover
From the severing of my hands
From the dissolution of my will
in the milk of my  tears.


Ii

Lost child, daughter of time
How could anyone
Who ever suckled you
Stop your breath?

Reaching into the loam these hands
Would bring you back to life

Inflate your lungs
Coat your bones with flesh

O lost child.  Child of smiles
Child of kites
Little amphibian.

We have argued
Over the parts of you
Found in the grove

We have battled
With the faith
Of children walking into the sea

Swimming toward justice
The ungodly mirage.



 copyright Jenne' Andrews  2011

1 comment:

Leslie said...

Jenne - Your response to Rilke is magnificent
"where might love be found..." - indeed
certainly not in arguement or in battles

Happy 4th and hugs as you reach for the stars