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, August 21, 2011

New Poem: The Garden Sings to Orpheus

The Garden Sings to Orpheus

Erect no gravestone. Just let the rose
bloom every year for him.
For this is Orpheus: metamorphosis
into one thing, then another.

Rilke  Songs for Orpheus

And thus when we tend the rose garden
It is not the roses we tend
It is the self, its long green foot
Seeking water.

And when we perceive the cloud
Passing over the slivered moon
With its iridescent border

Of vintage Chantilly
It is not a cloud—it is a tear
Shed over a small death

That flew winging and mute
Into the sky’s crepuscular harbor.

We know the song asleep
In all things and we knock upon them
Like golden doors in a catacombs

Praying for relief from our languor
For a sip from divine love’s chalice

So fortified, we then enter
The world of blue stones, celebratory
Meadowlarks, and whitest milk.

With a requiting fervor, we consume
the redolent bounty
Of the garden that came into the world

On its own, so haunted by loneliness
Was the black earth.

Orfea sees, names, sings
Rides a mare hewn of finest Carrara
Through the seasons, looking west

And east.  In all weathers all that is
She becomes.

August 19, 2011

Copyright Jenne' Andrews 2011  jenneandrews2020@gmail.com 


vivinfrance said...

A wonder-ful read, bore me on a wave of emotion through to the end.

Mystic_Mom said...

Jenne this is just bella! Thank you for sharing it...brava!