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 .

Sunday, December 11, 2011

New Poem: for Magpie Tales: Sand and Boat

image by Mostafa Habibi




 Scroll down to read  revisions and then draft, which was posted first-- if you like.


Sea and Sand

One morning she looked out
At the tossing sea and cloud cover
And noticed a small boat with one oar
On a sandbar

And saw not ten feet away
Someone buried up to the shoulders
In the sand

Tell me he doesn’t bear my face.
Say he doesn’t wear my face.

Ii

Is she triune--
Daughter, spirit, goddess?

Can she save herself
Or one of the selves,

The one desperate
Willing to die
If necessary

To once and for all
Vacate the trap

The fortified mirages
At her back?
 
iii

I work up my nerve
I go to the woman stuck
In sand

I point to the boat.

First, I tell her.
Imagine you can
Find your way.
 
iv

I know where the boat
Will take me

To the villa on the strait
Where the salt and sun
Might heal my wounds.

Then what stays me?
Is it the qualifier?
Or the salt?
Or the familiar womb
Of night?

V

We see the man trapped in sand
And realize it is a mirror

But, who has sent the boat
Who rocks the boat
In the rippling water?

What master of illusion sends
The rescue vessel
Into our dreams?

 Rev. 2

Of Being and Sand

One morning she looked out
At the tossing sea and cloud cover
And noticed a small boat with one oar
On a sandbar

And saw not ten feet away
Someone buried up to the shoulders
in the sand

Tell me he doesn’t bear my face.
Say he doesn’t wear my face.

Ii

Is she a triune being:
Flesh, spirit, goddess

Can she save herself
Or one of the selves,

The one desperate
Willing to die
If necessary

To once and for all
Vacate the trap

The mirages of happiness
At her back?
 
iii

I work up my nerve
I go to the woman stuck
In sand

I point to the boat.

First, I tell her
Imagine you can
Find your way.

iv

I know where the boat
Will take me

To the villa on the strait
Where the salt and sun
Might heal my wounds.

Then what stays me here?
Is it the qualifier?
Or the salt?
Or the familiar womb of night?

V

We see the man trapped in sand
And realize it is a mirror

But, who has sent the boat
Who rocks the boat
In the rippling water?

What master of illusion sends
The rescue vessel
Into our dreams?



Revision 1


Sand and Boat

One morning she looked out
At the tossing sea and cloud cover
And noticed a small boat with one oar
On a sandbar

And saw not ten feet away
Someone buried up to the shoulders
in the sand

Tell me he doesn’t bear my face.
Say he doesn’t wear my face.
 
Ii
 
I know where the boat
Will take me

To the villa on the strait
Where the salt and sun
Might heal my wounds.

Then what stays me here?
Is it the qualifier?
Or the salt?
Or the familiar womb of night?

Iii

I work up my nerve
I go to the woman stuck
In sand

I point to the boat.

First, I tell her
Imagine you can
Find your way.

Iv
 
Is she Trinitarian
Flesh, spirit, Goddess

Can she save herself
Or one of the selves,

The one desperate
Willing to die
If necessary

To once and for all
Vacate the trap

The mirages of happiness
At her back?

V

We see the man trapped in sand
And realize it is a mirror

But, who has sent the boat
Who rocks the boat
In the rippling water?

What master of illusion sends
The rescue vessel
Into our dreams?



Draft:

Sand with Boat and Man

One morning she looked out
At the tossing sea and cloud cover
And noticed a small boat with one oar
In a foregrounding taupe sandbar

And saw not ten feet away
Someone buried in the sand
Watching, looking

Tell me he doesn’t bear my face.
Say he doesn’t wear my face.

This one up to the shoulders
In wet dark sand.

Ii

What is this new element
Where I have planted my life?

Why have I come here—
To bury myself alive

To atone for the sins
Of doubt and rage?

I know where the boat
Will take me

To the villa on the strait
Where the salt and sun
Might heal my wounds.

Then is it the qualifier
Or the salt?
Or the womb of night

The sand of indecision
Becomes?

Iii

I work up my nerve
I go to the woman stuck
In sand;

I point to the boat.

First, I tell her
Imagine you can
Find your way.

Imagine there is a purposed
Crossing to be made.

Iv

Does she have
DID?
Developmental
Identity
Disorder?

Is she Trinitarian
Flesh, spirit, Goddess

Can she save herself
Or one of the selves,

The one desperate
Willing to die
If necessary

To once and for all
Vacate the trap

The lost cause
The failed marriage
The mirages of happiness
At her back?

V

If we see the man trapped in sand
And realize it is a mirror

Something to show us
Our predicament
That we bear up
In a living death

Entombed
By our need for the familiar

By our fear of assent
To yearning

Who has sent the boat
Who rocks the boat
In the rippling water?

What master of
illusion sends
The rescue vessel
Into our dreams?



cc
copyright Jenne' R. Andrews 2011

9 comments:

Mary said...

Excellent. Crafted with complexity and unanswerable questions.

Maureen said...

These lines stand out: "Tell me he doesn't bear my face./ Say he doesn't wear my face." and "Then is it the qualifier / Or the salt?"

I especially like those last seven lines of stanza V, and how you use them to bring us back to the first two lines I mention above. The "master of illusion"? The mirror holds the answer, if we only dare look.

Laurie Kolp said...

I agree with Mary... and the ending is fabulous!

manicddaily said...

Hi Jenne,

I especially like the last section, the entombment, the assent to yearning, the rescue vessel into our dreams. The beginning too=-the "tell me he doesn't wear my face." There are many many good parts here--the question and mood-- the prompt so particular, I think we've all done drafts of sort that we may wish to compress a bit. But a great deal here--K.

Isabel Doyle said...

Fine poem Jen. I wonder if we see our faces so clearly on others? If we are that aware or buried in denial?

Kathy Bischoping said...

I am studying your cuts and changes, esp. going from the Christian of Trinitarian to the Neptune-sound of triune, from the conditional "if we see the man" to the assertive "we see the man", from "the mirages at her back" to the fortress of "fortified mirages at her back". The "tell me he doesn't bear my face" part gave me chills. And I liked feeling the naming of "mirror" approaching in the sounds of "one oar" and "sandbar" and "mirage" and other "urr" and "or" sounds.

Tess Kincaid said...

I like the vision of the man trapped in the sand as a mirror...thoughtful piece, Jenne...

Ann Grenier said...

Thanks for sharing your drafts Jen. I will have to read a few more times to appreciate the nuance of your words. Intriguing and somewhat mysterious to me.

manicddaily said...

Hi Jenne, I think you've tightened this hugely. I found the development disorder stuff very jarring as the whole scene is so dreamlike and then it became so laboratorial (if that is a word). Clinical, may be a better one. I also much prefer "triune" as the other such a latinate mouthful. It's a very interesting poem, and manages to speak without the picture (which I think is important.)

In general, one issue I have with the whole blogging thing is that everything gets too long. (I mean when I write quickly, I write too much.) You've compressed a lot which is terrific. By too long, I partly also mean that the blogging audience would seem to have a relatively short attention span because it is sifting through so much. That said, I find the dVerse people to really have immense focus--Honestly. Agh. But it's all very different from putting a book together --and as you know, with a book, it's really hard to get readers. K. (This may not be too coherent-- a lot of stuff I'm supposed to be doing at this moment.)