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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 .

Tuesday, November 29, 2011

New Poem: The Wide Hands of the Wild, for DVerse OLN and Beyond

In my insomnia-related ennui last weekend I missed out on Mark Kerstetter's fabulous challenge to write "of the Wild."  Hence, this poem, for DVerse Poets Pub Open Link Night... zj




The Arab Tent 1866  Sir Edward Henry



The Wide Hands of the Wild

The heart wishes to return to the wild
the Open
the Eden of not knowing so many
painful things.

The hurts of love, how something
you’ve nourished complains
in your hand as its pulse flickers.

The fruitful, violent anarchies of
the wilderness:
displaced wolves trotting through
the snow curtain,
penetrating it with
the lamps of their eyes.

But what untamed thing lives within? And what
is our means
of feeding our own souls?

I took a train down the coast of
another country

I gave a horse her head and let her
race along the railroad track

I let the animate one inside me out
To dance, laugh, make love

My white flesh spread over
the jubilant lover who
whispered his encouragement

His mouth like a searching
infant’s at my breast.



cc
copyright Jenne' R. Andrews 2011

12 comments:

Maureen said...

So vivid that opening, with the image of the heart's pulse flickering. Love the title, and how you expand your poem to encompass what we try to tame but sometimes must allow to be wild.

Kerry O'Connor said...

Oh you had me from the first words.. just a wonderful capture of the wild brave heart in all living creatures: man and animal alike.

Thank you for your kind words on my poem today. Much appreciated.

Brian Miller said...

wishing to go back to eden before we knew so much (esp the pain) really like that...also the giving the horse the head and letting your wild one out to play...we need to do that more...

manicddaily said...

Hi Jenne,

This is really lovely, one of my favorites so far. All of the parts seem disparate but then, of course, fit closely together in an actual lattice. The end if beautiful, but so is beginning and middle. Especially like the inside outing, and the soul nourished towards the beginning, again at the end. K.

Beachanny said...

Your words left my pulse flickering. And wild are the winds of your words as the horse given her head outraces the rails and turns to the treeless hills where the landscape flows into the sky and onto the moon. Wildness on high! Wonderful.

Heaven said...

Enjoyed the imagery of the wild journey... let it all out...the ending lines are sensually stunning ~

Natasha Head said...

Fantastic! I too missed the awesome prompt, and it's presence is still lingering in my writes. Thought this a wonderful run with it, the language simply enthralling...

Timoteo said...

Our wild instinct lives, despite the collective attempt to turn us into proper boys and girls. What I like about you is that you've given it its head, (so to speak) as have I, and we both know we'd do it over again.

brendan said...

What so many fine wilderness poems like this tries to find are doors into the wild interior, a place we best only imaginatively reach and yet by so doing find leagues and leagues nd leagues of womb-water, giving birth to all manner of vitalities -- horse-hooves, lovers' flesh, the pure white gallop of joy. Without rising from our lonely writing chairs. Great job, Jenne. - Brendan

James Rainsford said...

"My white flesh spread over
the jubilant lover who
whispered his encouragement

His mouth like a searching
infant’s at my breast."

Very sensual and authentic. Love it, especially the above.

joanna said...

yes, we would all be a little better off giving the inner wild one her head every now and again. :) introspective & profound. thanks for sharing this.

Promising Poets Parking Lot said...

powerful one.



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