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 .

Sunday, July 13, 2014

New Poem: My Mother Carpets the Stairs -- for Magpie Tales!

My Mother Carpets the Stairs

She, one of three sisters,
was the first to carpet the stairs with a true
Lavar Kerman with bound
edges--spending its carmine
"open field" on heaviest treading,
so that over the years the center of each
swatch unraveled, became worn
from her nightly treks 
to and from our basement lair,

Such rugs graced hand-packed sand
floors in the villages outside
and as Americans
discovered them
in their way of waving the desultory
hand at the market in Marakesh,
rendered the more elegant,
the towering homes fronting the lake—

our specimen wide and luminous, 
central incarnadine flower, fading,
thick pile superbly shorn.

I remember when the starter castles
sprang from the mountain,
their front windows tricking geese
into impact and freefall.

We shouldn’t so colonize
the remaining wilds, that savannah
where the Bonabo
washes her face in the stream
after making love,
tail still kinked with pleasure.

But Mother would have done well
in Borneo, bivouacking a garrison
of skeptical apes, martialing
a hurried route tree to tree,
the one-arm swinging to take cover--

If she could have brought one thing,
only to the jungle
it would have been the scarlet
Kerman; tucked by now into the crook
of an acacia—nearly indiscernible
as something made by a human hand.

She could not know how it would smell
of civilization and ruin
or in what benign tongue
the compliments of the canopy
would be proffered at a safe remove.

copyright Jenne' R. Andrews 2014


Berowne said...

In a word, fascinating...

Helen said...

I have read your poem more than several times, with each read it becomes more and more intriguing ....

Mama Zen said...


Kutamun said...

Rhett Butler: No, I don't think I will kiss you, although you need kissing, badly. That's what's wrong with you. You should be kissed and often, and by someone ...

Tess Kincaid said...

Beautiful Jen...I can relate to this one...