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, September 29, 2011

New Poem - Draft- What Is Mine Leaves, Then Returns...

What Is Mine Leaves, Then Returns

Those who are beautiful—
who can keep them as they are?
Unceasingly in their faces
the life in them arises and goes forth.
Like dew from morning grass,
like steam from a plate of food,
what is ours goes out from us.

Where does a smile go 
Duino Elegies, Rilke

But then in love’s face are the unpaved roads
like rim-rock etched with tears and laughter.
My own sun-flecked hands return me
To the piano bench where my grandmother sat
Playing a Victorian waltz
Peering through the winter of her hair 

The scar on my leg, to one day in a forest
When my father and I clambered from an arroyo
Out of the path of a flash flood
And we stood marveling at how near
A canyon’s death-surge had come to us.

Yes, our cresting decrepitude is like a series
of vignettes—
Fading bruises a quick study
Palimpsest skin, words there half-discernible.
But old love made stays within;
It builds a nest and settles into itself
With its palpating, secretive breast.

What was mine goes out from me
And then returns
So that lovers’ names are mnemonic
In my dreams, compline chants to sing
In the fragrant dark privacies

Of insomnia, when the body
Knows that its tallowed soul flickers
Like a smoldering old oil lamp
Casting shadows of a favored reading chair
A warped upright piano
On bereft white walls.


 This poem is the latest in my series written to the postings of Rilke's work at the marvelous blog A Year with Rilke.  I am collecting these under the working title The Garden Sings to Orpheus: Lyric Responses to Rilke.

Copyright Jenne' R. Andrews 2011 All Rights Reserved.

3 comments:

Maureen said...

The way you link the thought in that last Rilke line to the face and and hands and leg and eyes and skin, using your trademark imagery is so lovely. This line - "But old love made stays within." - is a standout, so full of meaning.

Wonderful reflection on the meaning of Rilke's words.

Mama Zen said...

"So that lovers’ names are mnemonic
In my dreams, compline chants to utter
In the fragrant dark privacies

Of insomnia"

Oh, that is exquisite!

jen revved said...

Maureen, thank you-- thank you, always. and MZ-- so kind of you to read these. xxxxj