Welcome....

Poet Jenne' R. Andrews was born in Albuquerque and has spent the last thirty years in Colorado. Her literary odyssey includes seven years in the Twin Cities and ten weeks in Italy.

But it is the American West that figures most strongly in Andrews' oeuvre and gives rise to her most lyrical work. Her newest collection of poetry, Blackbirds Dance in the Empire of Love, a short but powerful collection turning on her love of place, is forthcoming from Finishing Line Press this year. Her poems have appeared in many signature journals, most recently in the new The Passionate Transitory, Belletrist Coterie, The Adirondack Review, and Poets for Living Waters.

Previous collections include Reunion, Lynx House Press; The Dark Animal of Liberty, Leaping Mountain Press, and In Pursuit of the Family, Minnesota Writers Publishing House, edited and published by her mentor, Robert Bly.

Ms. Andrews is also a former full-time Poet in Residence for the St. Paul Schools, a fellow of the National Endowment for the Arts in Literature, and earned the Master of Fine Arts Degree (MFA) in Creative Writing-Poetry at Colorado State. She has taught at the University of Colorado and has been an associate editor of The Colorado Review. She posts work in draft to this blog and reviews contemporary poetry at Loquaciously Yours.

Contact her on Facebook as Jenne R Andrews and Twitter @jenandrewspoet. e-mail: 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.