Welcome....

Jenne' R. Andrews is an American poet. Her career began in 1969 with the mentorship of Robert Bly, former Colorado Poet Laureate Mary Crow, and the Canadian poet Tom Wayman. Her first published poem appeared in The Colorado Review in 1971. Her first collection was published by Robert Bly, she received a literary fellowship from the National Endowment of the Arts and she was appointed full-time Poet in Residence of the St. Paul Schools for four consecutive years before ever completing her Bachelor's Degree. She holds B.A., M.A. and M.F.A. degrees from Colorado State University.

As the poet was born in New Mexico to a mother of Victorian pioneer heritage and is a longtime resident of the Poudre River Valley in northern Colorado, The American West figures strongly in Andrews' oeuvre and gives rise to her most lyrical work. Her first collection of poetry in thirty years, Blackbirds Dance in the Empire of Love, appeared in November 2013, from Finishing Line Press. She is a finalist for the Autumn House 2014 Poetry Prize--one of the most prestigious publication prizes in the country; among an imposing field of twenty candidates for the prize out of a total of 500 submissions.

Her expanded chapbook Blackbirds Dance is available signed from the poet or from Finishing Line; follow the links for an order form. Order the Collection here. Contact Andrews as follows: Facebook as Jenne R Andrews and Twitter @jenandrewspoet. e-mail: 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.