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 .

Thursday, January 5, 2012

New Poem in Draft




 
Fathom It

I once lived out in the open air
So wholly in the moment at
the barn’s redolent mouth,
Braiding my horse’s mane
Riding out, little dog trotting after us

Tethering the mare to the sapling
Slipping out of my clothing into the water
Back aboard and flying then home
At a dead gallop

Never have I been as at home in the world
As on a horse’s back
Or standing with her under the moon
Where she nuzzled me.

Now I live in a circle of rooms
The light invades.  It breaks in
Like an intruder, making me look
At what I cannot do:
I lurch, one leg
Three inches shorter than the other. 
I drag myself
From kitchen to my bed.

But tonight
After the light goes back into hiding
I will bear myself to my truck
To fly down the black roads
Of midnight

Anything…. To each day say
I have something here
I went panning for a nugget
Of truth and insistence
That I still inhabit the world
And this little aphoristic nub scrolled
within my hand is the proof.



cc
copyright Jenne' R. Andrews 2012

1 comment:

Kathy Bischoping said...

A small remark on this delicate new work. In:

I lurch, one leg
Three inches shorter than the other.
I drag myself
From kitchen to my bed

I applaud how it's not "the kitchen", how you've given "kitchen" a feeling of being three inches shorter than "my bed" by omitting any article.