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, July 24, 2012

New Poem: Nocturne and Lamentation, for DVerse Poets Pub OLN and Beyond

Nocturne and Lamentation

Today a photo came of you
with a woman I’ve never met—
you were looking at her and your hair
was dark with the sheen of a raven’s wing.

Suddenly I was holding you in my arms again,
rocking you in the long desert night,
I a girl, you an infant, as if you had been left
by our mother on the doorstep of my heart.

I deflected her fire and have shrapnel in my flesh.
I became afraid to spread my hatchling-to-swan wings,
but you headed to the mountains, the white powder,
the lakes,  lust-crazed trout spanking the flume
then caught up in your net--

First the Big Thompson, where I could go
once a summer to ride the trails,
and then farther away, telling me I too
should leave this place with its languishing
ghosts and lakes-full of tears.

Tonight, half-tied to the stake still,
the emerald lawns of summer drinking
the 4 a.m.rain,
I say to myself that my job is done:
I raised a man-child when I was a girl,

and that brick by brick
I can wall off my heart now,
I don’t have to be an oven waiting
for the risen loaf of your love;

I get to close down, go out of business,
retire, let the memory of you, the need
for you fade--

all the leavetakings and grief
and rage and fallings through and death:

to enter the inner room—
the archway of the stone villa
in the sun-fired hills,
come home to myself
light kindling the cut-glass
olio di olivi cruets,

to pace on the balcony, listening to Tosca
in the moonlight, woman alone
by intention,

having cut you from me, severing
the old roots that kept nudging their way
through the dry adobe wishing-well
of all the self-forsaking years. 



Maureen said...

Such tendered and tender feelings; indeed both nocturne and lamentation. That opening stanza might have sent us down one path but it turned, opening us to see another.

Some wonderful imagery: "hair / . . . dark with the sheen of a raven's wing"; "lust-crazed trout spanking the flume"; "the risen loaf of your love"; "the dry adobe wishing-well...."

"I get to close down. . . ." forces a stop, a taking in of how love hurts, how even the memory of it can keep nudging, kindling, cutting.

Brian Miller said...

oh , the longing in this..even as you wall off that heart is very palpable...the roots def still weedle into the bricks...smiles...

Natasha Head said...

Wow. You twisted this on me...and surprised me with the brilliance of the finish. I have digested a complete history of a soul...a "woman alone by intention" and this will linger long. Completely immersed with all senses, physical and spiritual, engaged. Fantastic!

Beachanny said...

This could as well be a song of mothers to sons. They always leave..and leave a hole in your heart that their new family, their children, their altered reality don't fully or sometimes in any way replace. We have to make our own happiness at last. Lovely, Jenne and thank you for the bd wishes.

Anonymous said...

Oh dear - very sad poem; and yet the cut-off voice - with Tosca and cruets of wine doesn't sound so bad - so perhaps some hope there! k.

Anonymous said...

This and the Notes to the Mater Familias burn with that intense fire getting to the core and perhaps even beyond as you employ deeper ways of seeing. On a personal note I generally have difficulty commenting on this type of subject as I often feel that commentary is invasive. I haven't resolved this issue at all so I tend to not comment but read and absorb. Your characterization and fearlessness is admirable and I find your work alive.

Mama Zen said...

"to pace on the balcony, listening to Tosca
in the moonlight, woman alone
by intention"

That is incredibly powerful.

chazinator said...

This is so powerful Jenne. The longing for the past so strong, the consciousness of having to move on with your life, being who you are once again. Face-to-face with that fact calls up such harrowing images that I am pulled into your pain of leave-taking with one part of your life, that part which you gave life to and now see gone to be his own man. I don't know that there is consolation for these moments. They are what they are; yet, a life of possibility rises anew, I hope, in the realization that you helped a human being become human, mistakes and all, as there always are with parents. The beauty of your poem is its clear-sightedness, spoken in lovingly polished verses, burnished with deep keen yet also with a exultation of life's force and power.

Anonymous said...

This is beautiful and sad and empowering all at once for me. You are at such a graceful stage. Lovely poem.

hyperCRYPTICal said...

A truly beautiful and tender poem.

When my two little men left home, initially there was sadness, a longing for things past - but I knew I had raised two good men and felt peace and fulfilment in that.

Anna :o]