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 .

Friday, September 23, 2011

Posting for Friday Poetry Fest and beyond: The Wings of Our Comprehension

The Wings of Our Comprehension
We will sense you
like a fragrance from a nearby garden
and watch you more through our days
like a shaft of sunlight in a sickroom.

The God that is coming, The Book of Hours II, Rilke.
My soft taupe dog sleeps in her crate
Now and then watching me with her dark eyes.
Does she ask me of time
and mortality?

Oh my shaft of sunlight
This One I cannot discern
With ordinary vision

I look out the window
I see the blank and voiceless day
The subdued hours of late autumn
Afternoon's pretext of stasis--

Yet impending mirth-filled hours
press against the door
Of the heart’s shaded cloister.

How it is that sunlight is penetrable
By fine-boned birds, that they should
Breast through it like water?

Lacking wings, in a truancy
Of the will, we lay our migratory hands 
Upon comprehension's knife
Drawing it cleanly through fresh bread.

copyright Jenne' Andrews 2011


Mystic_Mom said...

Lovely! Lovely! Brava! Bella! So nicely done Jenne. I love your images and textures, I could feel the sunbeam.

Anonymous said...

I have the feeling this poem will, indeed, be perceived differently by every single person who reads it... I am not a religious person, so I quickly discarded the idea of God and saw 'you' speaking only to the ray of light... And I liked it.

erin said...

and so we should be, we should be, we should be, and as we are here being, we should sing.

in a truancy
Of the will

it is by our own fault that we fail. i think on all of the concrete here. we lay it down. we hold ourselves too far from god and being. we should return to the forests, the fields. we should be.