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 .

Friday, February 8, 2013

New Poem: A Pattern of Embitterment


A Pattern of Embitterment

I will never be published by the elites:
I acridly muddied the water,
added a vinaigrette du malaise,

said, Did you even bother? 
Were you on the rag?

Now I force eggs and flour
and olive oil and salt
to take shape in my hands;

I make something I can see,
tilted here, on my good leg
in the taut rigging of the shadows.

The fascist male Right
will not keep out of my womb;
they rape, with the rusty awl

of sophistry; they troop in
wool-bearing and on all fours.

I drink the longest drafts of life
in the opaque deeps of night.
That is what insomnia is for.

But, dear editors,  who 
must I service
to make it over the portcullis
of the heart-breakers?

Long ago, so long past,
I was engaged.
I threw a lubricant across the room
and the moon flinched.

The imperious, soul-heisting editors 
so incongruously planted,
their ineradicable roots,
the sperm of their whale.

My pasta dough rests
as it is decreed that it should
after kneading.
At three a.m.
this is the only truly hopeful thing.

I am not resigned.  
I am saguaro-woman
she whose gall
infects the iconic.

Night is a long train
for the forsaken; 
he whom I love, the reticent one,
trudges down dark furrows

and first light opens the casket
of the vanguard blue hills.




copyright Jenne' R. Andrews 2013

3 comments:

Dawn Potter said...

Jenne, do you write song lyrics? Because

Night is a long train
for the forsaken;
he whom I love, the reticent one,
trudges down dark furrows

is like a blues song with a Leonard Cohen twist. I can almost hear the harmonica behind it. I know you're a musician. I only ask because I'm a musician, and frequently a formal poet, yet I have absolutely no songwriting ability. But some people can do both. Perhaps its like being bilingual; I don't know.

jen revved said...

Thank you, Dawn... my spells are less frequent. But out of it all comes something like music; your long poem in Beloit is gorgeous. xj

Dawn Potter said...

Sometimes I really do feel frustrated because I can't cross the divide between song and poem. I envy your ability to at least find a few chances of doing so. And thanks for the kind words about the poem.