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 .

Tuesday, June 11, 2013

New Love Poem--

After A Long Reticence


After A Long Reticence

Because the luminous aging body
is unreliable,
because its stirrings come in the deeps
of night,
we say that we will make love
tomorrow; you will take
our medicinal Eucharist;

Take, hold, devour that one
gathering herself for transfiguration
 in the burning spring.

We say to each other,
it is time again; risen bread has not
forgotten how it was made, the fresh
flour plump and musky with yeast,
the tang of the wild honey:

nor are the old cottonwoods
dormant; they surge, sprout
into leaf—then, gift-laden bees, freefall
of seed, amber sweat on the boughs.

We hold each other, warm
with promise; it will be tomorrow

when I will bury my face
in your neck
and your fingers surge in me
and my hand over your hand

so that I am luminous again,
the seraphic body
with its tremulous wings, aloft.

How is it that winter
has melted away?
Who made camp
along a river
that holds its breath?

We say to each other,

We are violins in the key
of yearning.  Tomorrow
we will be gypsies at a campfire
with half-strung bows.

Your long fingers, your
virile calling to me
even as I cup you in my hand,
as if I have caught the sweet
rain of Spring, as if we are
liquefying pears
or nectarines with melting flesh--

What is this country of desire
where we are now
after decades of reticence,
each one wondering

if there were a bend
in the river and if you took
that bend, would there
be white water and would
the exalted sinew
of the singing body hold.





copyright Jenne' R. Andrews June 2013



1 comment:

Maureen said...

Everything in this lovely lyrical poem speaks to coming alive.