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, December 18, 2012

New Poem: Reconnaissance, for The Mag and Beyond...

 Photo: Andy McGee


for Jack

Do you remember the day
the fire came to the ranch,
how it was to see all the horses
together on high barren ground
charged up, foaming with apprehension,

the terror that sent them wheeling
as one, like wind-blown sparrows?

Or more recently, our giving the old mare
a shot, the stumble and cascade
of her body to the earth,
the winching of the body
to the flat bed of the truck,
the cargo beneath the blue tarp.

Love in its blue body bag,
the discreet removal
of the lost?


I remember our riding into the timber
at the headwaters of the Rio Grande,
the soft rain, that I put on a slicker

sitting on a young horse who knew enough
to stand, while you watched from a dark gelding
back in the tall firs.

What if he had bolted, if I had fallen,
if I had not been falling for you?

Do you know that even now,
when we spoke in the late dust-filled
over our hands and hair

that I wanted to reach for you,
and stopped myself,
as if I could carve a chasm of not
yearning in the very floor;

do you see how we meander on,
as if we were in the Grand Canyon
on two old Arabians, one of us far ahead,
the other lagging, having taken
a shortcut down
to the mirage of water?


I remember the golden eagle in the eyre
above the old ranch in the wilderness.
You recall the osprey nest
on the utility pole
at the end of the road,

where hatchlings fledge and nothing ends,
merely fades into the staunch and climbing
dusk poplar stand,
our house, its windows
refracting cloud passage, moonrise--

and horseless now,
the tangle of it all, where we
trip ourselves up:

the incidental macramé nests
of twine from the cache’
of weather-rotten bales.

To participate in The Mag Sunday meme, click here.  

copyright Jenne' R. Andrews 2012


Maureen said...

Lovely, Jenne. The meaning of the title, which is perfect, is beautifully expressed in your lyrical stanzas.

Wishing you the blessings of the Christmas season.

Tess Kincaid said...

Earthy, wistful, and absolutely beautiful.

Helena said...

WoW! That last stanza blew me away!