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 .

Sunday, July 31, 2011

Poem-Not-for-the-Sabbath: Didn't She...

Not a poem about water, but...Unabashedly post-confessional-- forewarned is. 

Didn’t She

This foundling this poor non sequitur
You became because She
Jocasta of the house, Queen
Of the Nervous Breakdown
Broke the back of your trust
Eating the heart of her young

Making of her young, enemies.
Oh yes.  Didn’t she.  So that years out
From the mayhem no one knew
Went on in that salt box on the hill
Its knotty pine walls
Its props and tableaus of vintage paintings
And the bad oil copy
Of the first governor of Rhode Island
Himself a dour man

Still you cannot trust
Make of every homely little cheap dive
A lair for a wounded lioness.

You remember the night
Of the hair pulling contest
The rake the skin off one another’s arms
The face to face cat calling
Of whore and trollop
That locked you together
Girded as you were by common genes

So that enraged by her madness
And his dejection
You threw a silver tea set down a flight
Of stairs
A cacophony in the key of hell no one
In the neighborhood heard
For no one came running.

Indeed it is years out
Enough time they say
To grow a new heart
A new spine
Even go about the world
In the velveteen cloak
Of tenderness.

You live on
So raggedly, Foundling
So bravely
If lost ardor and feigned will are brave.


copyright Jenne' R. Andrews 2011


Anonymous said...

Intense poem!

Anonymous said...

I heard music from a horror/suspense film play in my head as I read!