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 many poems in 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 Enzo Castel di Lama and R.Alba DellaSora, will be released by Orfea Books in 2019; also after the New Year the poet's first book length collection in many years, The Candor of the Witness, a finalist for the Autumn House prize in 2014, will be on Orfea's Board.

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's daily life is centered around their seven English Golden Retrievers, four of them direct imports, and expects a litter in November-- see the Ardorgold website for details. Contact: jenneandrews2010@gmail.com.

Saturday, October 13, 2018

New Poem: Love After Yeats

Whole years have passed since last I posted.  Do not be offended at my latest poem, which is not far away in psychological time from my last poem here; corporeal joy in love's vernacular.

Love After Yeats

Unwearied still, lover by lover,
They paddle in the cold
Companionable streams or climb the air;
Their hearts have not grown old;
Passion or conquest, wander where they will,
Attend upon them still.

 The Wild Swans at Coole  William Butler Yeats 

All afternoon we roll in an imaginary sun
Hungry for you for days I come quickly,
Calling out, only you, your head against mine
To hear me.

All afternoon I make love to you, your maleness
And sweat, I kiss and touch and suck, taste my own
Juices, caress the velvet mushroom of your cock with my tongue
Suckle you like a newborn calf its mother

You are a fatalist, you say, “Maybe tomorrow.”
We are both so tired,
From life’s vicissitudes…tired, hungry.
But our time in the country of sweat is so
Abbreviated; we are the old swans
Yeats writes of; I have flapped my wings

In swan love over you, much of my body
Damaged and useless, no further
Disarming tricks in my heart
To incite a resurrection.

I dive into deep water
Where sharks could come
And halve me in two in an instant,
Deep warm salt water of the past
Where starfish wrinkle on the sea-bottom
Where octopi look out from great conches,

I begin to kiss and bite your lips; you are stroking
Yourself.  I tell you of something long ago,
How I taught my Italian lover
To touch me.
I am biting your lips and telling you
The story of two young lovers
In an instant that is fading
Like a painting seen once
From a train in a brief glimpse
Into someone’s window

Of how it was, his thick young cock
Thrusting, his fingers dipped
In olive oil circling my clit,
How I pulsed and grabbed him
My pussy pulling him into me
How he came hard, flooding me
With saltwater;

I am biting and teasing you;
You are stroking yourself
I tell you how my pussy flowers
When I am wet and hungry;
I think you remember how it was
With us—your breathing
Quickens; sweet syrup pours
Over your fingers;
We laugh and laugh
Beached together
On the shores of love
We two old swans.

copyright Jenne' R. Andrews 2018

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