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 .

Sunday, August 31, 2014

Poesia Nuova-- Meditazioni del Giorno, trans. Signore Marco Giuffrida, Vicenza, Italia

DAY GATHERING

MEDITAZIONI DEL GIORNO

Mezzanotte, primi di agosto
ed è tempo di riordinare le Cose,
lavori delle mani, creazioni della Mente.

Per portare la giornata al seno
come fiori piegati
o morbido tessuto fresco di bucato,
è l’unione di piccoli oggetti
con altri della stessa specie.
Sale con il miele. Gusci d’uovo
con i fondi del caffè,
scorze d’arancia e frammenti d’osso.

Poi, alla Chiusa il corpo chino,
a togliere il sudore rappreso
per il pomeriggio febbrile,
così come le piogge hanno donato
il verde, con generosità,
ai giardini nella fine estate.

**

E’ l’ora
di piccole verifiche:
come la casa sembra apparire
in fondo al viale
fiancheggiato da pioppi ricurvi
o come il vecchio canile, all’ombra,
ora vuoto,
senza le ultime dorate cucciolate,
o per il crescere di teneri alberi
che coprono la vista del torrente
che circonda la casa
al pari di una folla di Gheise
coperte da fruscianti manti
di seta verde,
la stessa casa in una cauta serenità
si abbandona, dondolandosi e chinandosi,
alla pioggia e all’umidità,
verso la Terra.

**

Si fa davvero poco
per mettere ordine,
ed anch’io a mezzanotte, adagio,
mi abbandono  all’interiorità,
Donna sola,
chinandomi e riflettendomi
nella Danza delle Nutrici.
Ancestrali paure dell’Esistere
mi afferrano per un braccio
trascinandomi semincosciente
verso compiti più semplici,
forgiando un’alleanza
fra un’ora e la successiva,
tra il consumato per il piallato delle tavole
della panca dove noi ci sediamo,
nella ciotola cobalto del tramonto;
e come i deboli venti grigi del Tempo
noi rendiamo le cose lisce come cote,
cuscino fra noi e quel Paese lontano,
al di là del Miraggio,
di verdi campi infiniti.

Jenne' R. Andrews, trans.  Marco Giuffrida

Inglese:

Day-Gathering

Midnight, early August
and it is time
for the centering of things,
hands’ work, mind’s drift.

To gather the day to the breast
like the folding of flowers,
the soft fabric of the laundry,
the reuniting of small objects
with others of their kind.
Salt to honey.  Eggshells
unto coffee grounds,
orange rind and wishbone.

Then, to sluice the body down,
rinse away the dried sweat
of the fevered afternoon,
how the rains have imparted
a green generosity
to the late summer garden.

ii

It is the hour
of small recognitions:
how the house seems ever
appearing, at the end of the long
lane flanked by leaning
poplars, how the old kennel,
barren now of gilded litters
in shaded runs,
belongs to the overgrowth--

of advancing leggy trees, each year
coming in closer from the creek,
encircling the house like a throng
of geishas in rustling green silk,
house itself in a circumspect quietude,
yielding to the rain and damp,
rocking back against the earth.

iii

Little truly gives itself
to the making of order,
but even as I freefall inward
in midnight adagio--
woman alone,
bending and reflecting
in the nurturer’s dance,
old fears at existence
pulling at my arm,

this half-conscious way of giving oneself
to plain tasks forges an alliance
between one hour and the next,

between the wearing away of the hand-planed
boards of the deck where we sit
in a cobalt bowl of twilight--

and how the low grey winds of time
hone us like whetstone,
bearing us on toward that far country
beyond the mirage
of infinitely green fields.


Jenne' R. Andrews  August 2014


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