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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, December 13, 2011

New Poem: for DVerse OLN

Omnivore

I felt it come in, omnivorous and singing,
An immense bird of prey made of cold and wind

Then it became a thousand jilted brides with
Billowing couture trains
Hurling themselves
Through a static-charged air—

First they galloped side-saddle
Into the cottonwood stands
Along the creek
Snapping the boughs to whips--

Claiming the fields
With ice-white scythes
So that the Canada geese feeding there
Rose as one calling body.

Now, the ascension of fear;
I am the only driver
Resolved to make myself at home
In this storm.
It lets me pass

But it is as if the air is wildly glad,
Has come to make love to the sere trees
Raise all who sleep in unmarked graves
To let them dance
And sweep the earth clean
Of the living.

The snowplows idle in the dark;
Someone radios
This is the real thing
Look away, stay in.

Out on the blacktop,
Behind the sagging barbed wire
Tacked there half a century ago,
The mares in foal band downwind
In the cloister of ice-cast saplings:

Only a mile north,
Where Wyoming’s blue horizon
Calls the eye in clearing weather,
Yearling calves huddle together
Freezing where they stand.


cc
copyright Jenne' R. Andrews 2011


17 comments:

Mystic_Mom said...

Jenne once again your words paint images that are moving, powerful and unforgettable! Brava my dear!

Laurie Kolp said...

Enjoyed this... I really like the jilted bride image.

Timoteo said...

...a thousand jilted brides with billowing couture trains...

I've never heard winter described as such, and sure I never will again.

You are a true original, Jenne!

manicddaily said...

Oh, this is just beautiful. The language is so precise and rich at once. And the headlong rush of words is just great. I haven't been able to listen to tape or video, but just on page great. Also, I usually am a stickler for punctuation--I really am pretty old-fashioned about that type of stuff--but the lack of it works just fine. K.

Ann Grenier said...

Oh, I'm freezing and disoriented after reading this perfectly descriptive poem of a ferocious snow storm, producing fantastic visions as the driver proceeds.

I won't drive in a snowstorm anymore but often did when I was younger here in New England. Wonderful poem Jen.

Maureen said...

Very strong images throughout, from the bird of prey at your opening to the yearling calves "freezing where they stand" in conclusion. Reading this poem is almost like watching a movie, one visual piling on another. I especially like "the Canada geese. . . /Rose as one calling body" and ". . . the air is wildly glad / Has come to make love to the sere trees". Your title, too, which really takes up meaning with "The snowplows idle" (I see these immense maws, just waiting).

Brian Miller said...

so vivid your descriptions of the storm are fascinating jenne, for real it was very nice...and the cows at the end i felt so sorry for them...

Natasha Head said...

You are truly a master of beautiful words that leave behind colour and vibrant impressions. Living and breathing write, pulses with life...fantastic!

magicinthebackyard said...

"Claiming the fields
With ice-white scythes
So that the Canada geese feeding there
Rose as one calling body."

I love the image this brought to mind. All those birds, in one swift move from field to flight. I always did love watching that. You are a wonderful writer and I always enjoy reading you. Thank you for the visit to my blog today. Keep penning this fabulous poetry!!!
Hugs!!

Rosemary Nissen-Wade said...

The final version posted here seems to me perfectly judged in every respect!

I have just nominated you for a Versatile Blogger Award. Read all about it at: http://passionatecrone.blogspot.com/2011/12/versatile-blogger-award.html

(If you have already received one, which would not surprise me in the least, let me know and I'll replace you in my list.)

beckykilsby said...

From the heat of the Dubai desert to the shivering sere of a Wyoming winter. dVerse has it all.

Wonderful images sweeping the storm through Jenne.

Brendan said...

Something about the full-bore wilderness of this poem is starkly refreshing. Like there's a thirst inside for wild language that only poems like this can slake. Thanks. - Brendan

Mama Zen said...

Magnificent imagery! Wow!

James Rainsford said...

Memorable imagery and great story-telling here Jenne. I enjoyed reading it.Thanks for sharing.

Victoria said...

So well-expressed, Jenne. I guessed it early on, perhaps because I live in a similar climate. That tells me what an apt metaphor you've chose.

Charles Elliott/Beautyseer said...

And we city folks in L.A. think 60 degrees is cold!

A chilling and vivid poem, indeed.

Thank you for posting this. Wonderful read.

zongrik said...

i like how you say now my hair is dark agina, to show you were younger. then later, an old woman cmoes by, but really, you are old, gert set up.

just great imagery here