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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 .

Thursday, July 26, 2012

Nocturne and Lamentation, Revised



 
Nocturne and Lamentation

Choose the words you use—now right, now wrong—
With abandon: when the poet’s vision
Couples the Precise with Imprecision,
Best the giddy shadows of his song:

Paul Verlaine

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,

left by our mother, gone mad and to ruin,
on the doorstep of my heart. I deflected

her fire and shrapnel lives in my flesh; I was
afraid to spread my hatchling wings

to a swan’s breadth, but you headed
into the mountains, their white powder

and swelling rivers, lust-crazed trout spanking
the flume, then falling into your net--

first the Big Thompson, where I could drive
once a summer to ride the trails,

and then farther away, telling me I too
should leave this place with its languishing

ghosts and creeks-full of tears.
Tonight, when the emerald lawns of summer

drink 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 now, one brick then
another, I wall off my love, cutting you

from me, severing the old roots that kept
nudging their way through the dry adobe

well of my long self-forsaking. I am alone
now by intention and lamplight, in the kitchen

of the stone villa old yearning has made
within me, high in the twilight hills.





 cc



copyright Jenne' R. Andrews 2012

1 comment:

Beachanny said...

I think you captured psychological pain as well in words as anything I've ever read. Palpable, aching, stomach churning, back wrenching, mind searing, an untreatable pain that can only be compared to stark terror turned inside out. Excellent work as always!