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, November 4, 2013

New Poem: Guild

Many thanks to Tess Kincaid for the meme up at Magpie Tales...


Ressurection II 1945, Sir Stanley Spencer 
Guild

Mouthing delight
at the patchwork fervor of September leaves,
piety's handmaidens meet to piece;
giddy with ambition,
they splay the Star of Bethlehem quilt out
with its half-built rainbow of spokes.

Each voluble quilter wants to go to heaven;
stitching, several speak the Word.
Then they break bread,
faces etched with Old World craqueleur,
suffused chatter fading into dusk
like the Tenebrae of dreaming doves.

With their brethren in laity
they throng the unschooled choir
and rehearsing the requiem foreign
to their plain mouths,
whisper enmity at an arriviste--
a young lyric soprano in the front row.

How much they hate her
for the larksong she has bestowed
upon the congregation and the clan!

So it is they put away
their piecing, the luminous quilt embroidered
with Episcopal Women of Hastings,
to be presented in a ribbon-cutting
for the new children’s clinic on Raintree Road.

Spotting the willowy thing praying
alone in the nave,
they group, waiting for her,
fingering the sterling crosses at their throats,
their dark straw hats skewered through
with faux-pearl pins,
casting her out of Babylon
with envy's ruthless stones.


copyright Jenne' R. Andrews 2013



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