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 .

Monday, February 18, 2013

New Poem: Mes Femmes Sauvages et Beaux

Many thanks to Tess Kincaid for today's fascinating prompt.  See others' responses at The Mag.


Wind of History   Jacek Yerka 


Mes Femmes Sauvages et Beaux

I met a lady in the meads,
Full beautiful—a faery’s child,
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
And her eyes were wild.

John Keats, Le Belle Dame Sans Merci

Mother dreamed profane largesse,
thought she should live
at Monticello.
But Winifred’s old Anglia caught fire
and she ran a stop sign drunk,
killing her passenger,
broke out of her body cast.

The women in my family
couldn’t be tamed or kept.
After I left the canyon,
our A-frame caught fire
and no one thought
to save the cats.

A rebuilding is unjust.
Gyorgy had no Monticello,
but his cabin was home;
he died in a tent
on scorched ground
near a smoking cairn of ash.

I couldn’t stay;
I had to leave. When I was cornered
in my wheelchair
by leering owls, I launched
flaming epithets, called a cab,
willing to sport a peg-leg
all my days.

What is the mean streak,
the Irish coming-after-you gene
in the distended carotid
of every diva with our name?

Even Mother rose
from her Garboesque despair, 
disabled the nursing home alarm,
ran to the beauty parlor,

and was cursing me out loud
when her heart shuddered
and the neon filaments
of her jailbreak dream 
went dark.





copyright Jenne' R. Andrews 2013

2 comments:

Berowne said...

Melancholia, beautifully expressed...

Tess Kincaid said...

Another gripping piece of your personal history, Jen...that last stanza especially...