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 .

Friday, October 21, 2011

New Poem: Anesthetic in Gilead


There Is Anesthetic in Gilead

Morning after no sleep and I make coffee
shaking out last clumps of hardened
brown sugar; late sleeper, lover of dark
I don’t want morning’s blessings
Over my gnarled hands;

The window’s world opens and I see
The dictator dying or dead and admitting
To some lust for his red-running blood

I gladden there in my damask chair
For the Libyan people.
The dog and I settle in to watch the trial
The earnest anesthesiologist whose father
Has just died explain everything
About someone’s accidental
Euthanasia to his own satisfaction

ii

Weariness.  Exhaustion. Desuetude. 
Ennui.  All of the names
For chronic insomnia, chronic pain.
Propofol, like mirasol
Spanish for sunflower.

I return to the blank page
To lines from Rilke and try a meditation
But my exhaustion sends me back into my room
Where we doze and then I see
That the bear that sleeps by day beneath the bed
Has me by my bad leg again
That as in every day I must transcend
The bear.

iii

I push myself on, stumping over the dried weeds
In the back, throwing the tennis ball.
For one Gilded Peak Scrumptious Munchkin
Aka Munch.
I hear the aides at the home two doors down
Talking about a patient.

For a moment I envy again
My old friends in their air beds
Soaring in the dim air in the lifts
The tender opiate mercies
Unspoken of, where they wither.

Ascend, transcend, revive yourself,
Poet, I whisper   then I read
About a final exit
Using a turkey roasting bag
Filled with helium,
Rigged with an irreversibly locking cord.

That’s the ticket, say goodnight
Everyone, stick your head
In a parachute that won’t open
Turn the cylinder’s cock
And like a birthday balloon
Lift off, into the sweet beyond
Of no longer.

But only if it’s not feeling-not living
You really want.


xx
copyright Jenne' R. Andrews 2011    jenneandrews2010@gmail.com . 

2 comments:

Steve Isaak said...

Wow-worthy (in a good way), poetry-in-its-truest-sense poetry, wild and intense.

zongrik said...

there are some good images like

From the antique potty chair

I reel myself in like a weary silver marlin;

And laid her on her back
Under the one-eyed moon
Under the sky
Like garbage
Like carrion