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, February 14, 2012

New Poem: The Engine Turns Over posted for DVerse and Beyond...

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The Old Engine Turns Over

The mind is hungry, lonely.
Follow it:
it goes out into the twilight
to nose the lashing wind.

The hands stay behind.
Into a stoneware bowl
butter and sugar.

What comes next,
if we but imagine it?


Toweling off after a shower
I think it is the human brain
that separates us from the rest
of the living

And the clothing we put on
causing us over time to shed our hair

Although now and then something hirsute
slouches among us,
readying itself for love and war.


Abyssal cold.
The animal nature:
prophetic, this hibernation,
how tendrils of ice lock us away
from each other.

On the radio a man describes
someone with a year to live
becoming a wilderness guide
in the North Woods.

A year!
I remember those woods,
an infinitely deep lake,
the granite coals of a sauna,

Canoeing the headwaters
of the Mississippi.

The impulsive bravado
that kept me in the world.


Forty years later,
cutting the pills in half
in a surge of volition,

I forget to put away the yogurt.
I return it to the refrigerator,
praying that the good bacteria prevail.

Were there such follies in the garden?
Who would not eat of an apple--

He who ate the ripe plums,
called the asphodel a greeny flower,
was never damned.

Falling and falling,
O troublemaker.
Feral wings of cold,

Dark angel of winter,
Clutching at the heart
with Carerra hands.

Frozen harp of telephone wires.

Stalled hellos and good-byes:
in frigid Calabria. Dark ships
in the port, holds packed with
brokered opium,
beached on the ice.


Twilight in the cold.
The old truck grinds and the engine turns over,
ice thick on the windshield.

My blood in a frenzy
of craving,
I back out and wait
in my tomb of frost
for the heater’s warm breath
to clear the pane.

Here, on every hand, 
an hourglass
prismatic with late winter light.

copyright Jenne' R. Andrews 2012


Kerry O'Connor said...

It is always fascinating to read your work.

Divalounger said...

Beautiful, beautiful write!


Brian Miller said...

love the progression in this jeanne, from the cold beginning to the hot outh of spring...and the allusions within as well...also the difference in dream and reality...

Pat Hatt said...

Like how you weaved the seasons into your verse, really brought it alive that much more. Nicely done!

Lady Nyo said...

There is so much in this work....haunting, haunting, and so evocative of life....everylife, if we just look.

I have to read this over and over, because it is so layered...not so straight forward, more undulating, spiralling, but all to the good.

A complex poem, that holds together well. Your imagery is mesmerising.

Lady Nyo

kez said...

Cool a trip of sorts told so poetically ...thank you x

Ann Grenier said...

All I feel is icy cold, darkness, isolation. But the old engine still turns over even when it's covered in ice...keeping hope alive. I feel this deeply every day.

Anonymous said...

This is amind with tendrils sprouting in all directions..... Where does it turn next? The unexpected becomes expected.... That's the mark of a true writer...

ayala said...

Lovely how you weaved this verse ! Nicely done !

Mystic_Mom said...

Your words always draw me in, and show me another world of sights, sounds and thoughts. Thank you for this my dear! It is a wonder to read.

jen revved said...

Thanks to all who've commented on my work recently-- xxxj

Anonymous said...

lots of interesting things here like

I think it is the human brain
that separates us from the rest
of the living

Manicddaily said...

Yes, another wonderful poem. Sometimes I am not certain about all the parts--they do fit together beautifully, but it is much to sustain--for you and also for today's reader. They work well! And in this one particularly, but you make a hard task for yourself. K.