Poem: The Wound Testifies

The Wound Testifies

It is true that I am the beggar heroine of my own life.  It is true that I have

wounds that glitter in the sun like silver dollars baked into my skin.  It is true

that I have a mouthful of black butterflies at sundown.  But pain is.  Lies are.  

If you love and open the wound your heart is someone will pour black oil

Into it--  you will fold like a white silk scarf in the meaningless light of

afternoon.  You will want to die, but then if you can stand it a few

seconds longer, you will rise up, sit in the dusk where the clouds and

retreating sun make a bonfire scrim behind the trees. Have you seen

The way they reach and search, with the black branches against magenta

and orange light, the beggar heroine ascending from her despair like a

blackbird, in a few luminous minutes of delight.

ii

I have wept and I have raged: is this not true of us, we who feel too keenly,

so that we are pierced by the merest whisper. I would like to have stones in

my breast, not flesh, not the pale weak flesh so readily seared by innuendos. 

I would like not to rise up like a matriarch owl, my wings beating over you

who live by wounding and cowardice. For lo, I am utterly sick of being

a wound, sick to death of death and the smell of death and rain and the

promise of rain only to have the pallid sun beat down and parch the earth. 

I would love to be a clock, inanimate yet ticking away the seasons.  Or a

bomb that did some good, if  there were such a bomb, like safely moving

a collapsed house off a child even if it cost me my life.  Or to be someone

On fire with self-belief, who has not collected all of her tears like sapphires

in a velvet box or hour on hour, blunders on even when the shadows

feel like loving pale arms and the water waits, in  a wanton and green allure. 

Revision, copyright 2019 Prof. Jenne' Rodey Andrews 

New Poem: Love After Yeats

New Poem for Magpie Tales.....

photo by Daniel Murtagh

Pasodoble, 1979

Unlike other moments of transport

I remember that day exactly.

After the drought between us

he had flown in; so much time

had passed, I could not still
my leaping heart.

I had taken over my parents’ house

after my father’s death.

I had inhabited their room

sifting through mother’s jewelry

for some time,

drinking the cold white wine

of summer,

erasing the bad years,

the disarray of cigarette-burned

furniture and floors,

all the chaos two drowning people

leave behind

when death comes,  circumspect

as the mail carrier—

Suddenly Father was gone and Mother

wouldn’t speak;

she was face down on her bed

in the Golden West,

where broken people are deposited

like a check to a teller

to be fed and dressed

and wheeled in to the lounge,

parked under a donated

clock with slow hands.

That day my lover

stood in the doorway,

his brown eyes dancing;

he was my height, not tall,

with a dazzling smile

that made you think

of Caribbean beach fires…

His English was lyrical,

assonant with  Spanish.

I wore a new peach peignoir,

my hair down. 

When he stepped toward me

there was no stopping it—the wet

deep kisses, his hands deftly

sliding the gown from my shoulders

until it pooled on the floor

like a wilted orchid

someone had forgotten

to place in a vase of cut glass

that could refract its pale luster.  

Then, kisses and whisperings,

 the beautiful clench

of mutuality, how we had taught

each other the horizontal

Pasodoble—

I, pulling him into me

with those deepest muscles,

he, surging, his fingers

massaging the hot opalescent

pearl-slick node there, 

with its long sensate petals,

So that I pulsed, and pulled him

down into the hungry fathoms

of my womanhood--

clenched, and burned;

my heart fracturing

at the beauty and glory of it.

We two lay awash and weeping

in that stillness

of absence and summer;

He said he was in love with me,

and I said I wanted to carry

his child.

Years later I sent a letter

in Spanish in care of a church

listing his name among its congregants
telling him I regretted my hurts,
had forgotten nothing between us.

Of course that good fellow the pastor

passed it on to his wife

who sent a curt greeting to me

and said she had given it to him;

that he had read it, lifting one eyebrow,

saying nothing.

How I wanted to open the floodgates,

Somehow revive the past.

Not long after she wrote again,

saying that he had died,

heart giving out at eighty-three,

refusing oxygen.

I wondered what had happened

to me in multiple

collisions with other men

over the years, a hardening

of the heart that had given him

so much lyrical tenderness. 

When the news came

I lay down on my rumpled bed;

in afternoon light; our old rapture

poured over me;

his semblance kissed the small

of my back;

I whispered, “Gracias a la vida

che mi ha dado tanto; *

my grey hair spread around me,

a field without flowers.

*Gracias a la vida che mi ha dado tanto = Thank you life, for giving me so much."

New Poem: Notes on a Day in England

Notes on a Day in England

I turn on the PC

to be treated to a series of photos

of friends spending the day in York.

Several of us are peering into the window

of this romance.  A solemn yet generous-voiced

Englishman.  A beautiful American woman.

Figuratively along for the ride,
we muse over the photos, the stark

yet tender rowhouses, the cathedral--

“Yorkminster”--

embracing the air with Gothic arms.

the grey stucco on grey sky; 
an aristocratic dark ale
shared in a dark inn.

We are not voyeurs--only

want these two

to keep warming their hands 
by the light

in each other’s eyes--

our attention says, “Godspeed.” 

Our conjecture recognizes the potential

for delirium—the ecstatic—

and how it is to part,

how deep the aching.

One afternoon forty years ago

I released the hands clasping mine,

staunching my tears

as he wept as well, and the train

pulling out of Turin station

bore him away 
like the welter of night.

Here it is a blue and diminishing day.

My love reads in the next room;

we are old, vulnerable

to the next hard thing

which we know will befall

as surely as bad weather descends

over the valley.

We think that we will face

all things bravely,

even when one of us

is removed from our daily lives

and where he sat or where we lay

inexorably pools with absence.

 How necessary

to give over to love, how definite

the great sundial of late winter

cottonwoods casting their own

courageous shadows

over last year's grass.    

copyright Jenne' R. Andrews

Second Guest Poem - Rosalba Di Vona - Magia della solitudine dell' anima - The Magical Solitude of the Soul

Welcome to the second week of publication of a contemporary Italian poet’s work on my blog.  The poet Rosalba Di Vona has graciously permitted me to translate her poem Magia della solitudine dell’anima/ The Magical Solitude of the Soul.

This is a brilliant poem about existential torment, of the body attempting to speak with the soul or more properly, attempting to listen to what the soul says in and with silence.  Please know that this may well be an imperfect translation.  I ask that you feel free to comment—this is a blog, after all—even contributing a better working of the poem in English or parts of it—to do it even more justice.The poem appears first in rich and beautiful Italian.  Then, the translation. My heartfelt thanks to this wonderful poet!

Benvenuti alla seconda settimana di pubblicazione dell'opera di un poeta italiano contemporaneo sul mio blog.  Il poeta/la poetessa formidabile Rosalba Di Vona gentilmente ha permesso a me di tradurre la poesia Magia della solitudine dell’anima.

Questa è una poesia brillante sul tormento esistenziale, del corpo tentando di parlare con l'anima, o più correttamente, tentando di ascoltare ciò che dice l'anima e nel silenzio.  Si prega di sapere che questo potrebbe essere una traduzione imperfetta.  Chiedo che sentono liberi di commentare — questo è un blog, dopo tutto — anche contribuendo a un migliore lavoro della poesia in inglese o parti di esso — fare esso anche più giustizia. Grazie di cuore, Rosalba!

Painting by Lorenzo Luciani

Magia della solitudine dell’anima

Resto ad ascoltare il lento passo
che spesso appare scomodo
ma intimo confessa
l’intervista all’anima inquieta

aggrovigliata nella sedia preferita
stringo al petto le ginocchia e fisso
piedi scalzi laccati di rosso e
mani  lente a massaggiare caviglie

sguardo dolce che implora energie
nell’intimità del grande silenzio che
racconta anche ciò che non sopporta
a  chi non l’ascolta senza inorridire

magia della solitudine dell’anima
che non ha bisogno di lenti per vedere e
credere nelle azioni che verranno ricompensate o
per trovare approdo dove il razionale è latitante

cerco solo l’intuizione giusta quella dei verbi che bramano
gesti da fare per incontrare  la speranza di futuri migliori
non si sopravvive oggi se non si pensa al domani
Il dolore della vita è maestro e in lui cerco la speranza

copyright Rosalba Di Vona  2014.


The Magical Solitude of the Soul

della poetessa Rosalba Di Vona.

I rest, to listen to the slow pace
that often seems inconvenient
but intimately confesses
an interview with the unquiet soul.

Tangled in a favorite chair
pressing my knees to my chest,
my feet fixed and lacquered red,
my slow hands massaging my ankles,

with a sweet look that summons energy
into the intimacy of the great silence
that recounts, even though
it is insoportable
to one who cannot listen
without being horrified.

The magic of the soul's solitude,
that doesn't need glasses to see
and believe in actions                                                                                                                
that will be rewarded
or to find approbation
where the rational is fugitive.

I am looking for that certain intuitiveness
of verbs that crave gestures of action,
to encounter hope for a better future.
You do not survive today
if you do not think about tomorrow.
The pain of life is a teacher
and it is there that I search for hope.

A poem by Rosalba Di Vona
Translation:  Jenne' R. Andrews

They Know All, the Stars/ Sanno Tutto Le Stelle by the Italian Poet Maria Esposito

Immagine di Maria Esposito

Caro Amici:  questa nel Italiano e sotto.  It is with great pleasure that I post what will surely not be the first of guest poems by an Italian "poetessa," with my humble effort at a translation into English beneath it.

I had no idea there were a number of gifted Italian women poets--throughout mainland Italy and especially, on Sicily, in the spectacular communities of like-minded people on that storm-tossed island that has been home to the Greeks, the Romans, the Normans, the Spanish, the Arabs-- multiple bel epochs,  each leaving its spectrum of influences.

I gladly offer the opportunity to the reader to try his or her own hand at a better translation, one that brings forth more of the intense lyrical mysticism that pervades this poem.  Please note that there is a translation link on the sidebar where you can insert as much as a stanza at a time to compare my translation to your own or others'.

Without further ado, a beautiful poem by Maria Esposito.  Thank you, beautiful Maria!

. . . . . . . . . .

È con grande piacere che vi do la che sicuramente non sarà il primo di poesie di un Italiano "poetessa", con il mio umile sforzo di una traduzione in inglese sotto di essa.

Non avevo la idea che fosse un numero di  poeti dotti Italiani chi anche sono donne--in tutta l'Italia continentale e, in particolare, in Sicilia, nella spettacolare comunità di persone che la pensano in quella  isola bellezza che è stata la casa per i Greci, i Romani, i Normanni,  gli Arabi-- più bel epoche, ogni lasciando il suo spettro di influenze.

Sono lieto di potervi offrire la possibilità al lettore di provare la propria mano in una migliore traduzione, quello che porta via più intensa misticismo lirica che caratterizza  questa poesia. mysticism

Senza piu de mi , una bella poesia di Maria Esposito. Grazie, bella Maria! Si prega di notare che c'è un collegamento di traduzione sulla barra laterale dove è possibile inserire quanto una stanza in un momento di confrontare la mia traduzione al proprio o altri".

Sanno Tutto Le Stelle

Sanno tutto le stelle
Sanno tutto loro...
Come indicarci con esattezza
le attese o imparare a maneggiare
il niente.
Come scavare nelle speranze
e andare avanti.
Sanno tutto le stelle
come raccogliere le ore
ed essere fedele ai segreti
a come amare con grazia
e senza egoismo o come
attendere il destino oppure
inventarselo.
Sanno tutto le stelle
finché restano somposte e
sparse nel cielo per la gioia di Dio
e sanno anche a come sognare
un immortalità ma che
non sia ben ancorata alla terra
quell'ordine scandito
che veglia come un guardiano
le sorti degl'uomini dall'universo.

They know all the stars

They know all, the stars.
They know all.
How to tell us in exactitude
our suppositions or how to manage
nothingness.
How to excavate our longing
and how to keep on.

They know all, the stars
how to collect the hours
and be faithful to their secrets;
how to love with gratitude
and without egotism;
how to attend to fate
or invent it into being.

They know it all, the stars,
how to remain affixed yet scattered
to the delight of God

and they also know how to dream
in an immortality
that is unanchored to the earth--
that order set forth
that watches like a guardian,
over humanity's fate in the universe..

Maria Esposito, Napolitana - translation, Jenne' R. Andrews, M.F.A.


Image provided by Maria Esposito

Forthcoming: poetry from the masterful Siciliana/Termitana Rita Elia, Rosalba di Vona, Prof. Santina Cundari, "Alla Pescatora" of beautiful Scilla, Italia, and others...

Recent Poem: Faultlines

This translation is a compromise between my own, done with the help of a translation program, and that of Sr. Marco Giuffrida.  Watch for his in full.  The original and English version of the poem appear below it.  Thank you.

Questa traduzione è un compromesso tra la mia, fatta con l'aiuto di un programma di traduzione, e quella Signore Marco Giuffrida. Guarda per il suo intero. La versione originale e in inglese del poema appare sotto di esso. Grazie.

La Frattura

Sputa la pioggia,
è dopo, del radio, avviso di tempesta.
Adesso qualcosa che ho fatto e venduto
comincia a incrinarsi,
frantumarsi, allargarsi

come colei che osservo nello specchio
nelle acque vorticose della notte.

E adesso, che le ragazze nigeriane
non sono tornate alle famiglie.
Così, ora vi sono linee di faglia, fratture,
in molti cuori.

ii

Chi può riparare a tutto questo.
quale prodotto straordinario
per uso domestico
che riempie tutte le incrinature.

Che vaso di decoupage colla,
lo progettato sembra un’ craqueleur-

Cosa propinquità e di decenza,
quale vicinanza o opportunità,
o segretario di Stato
o dottrina antica vieta la guerra?

 iii

Questi cose frantumati, si allontanano
l’un l’altro,
nonostante la loro archiviazione lucida
o polvere di vetro--
.
Ciò che non dovrebbe accadere, ma accade…

Che non posso spiegare io stesso per me.
Che la nostra affiliazione è inspiegabile
dopo la frammentazione delle anni domestici.

Che qualcuno che conosco
Che vive vicino al fiume
or’ va su una bicicletta nel diluvio
con cappello fradicio,
il suo cagnolino affamato
trotto di lato.


iv

Queste sono le cose che aderiscono a me
ed a voi, queste cose
che rubano la nostra attenzione:

Come al crepuscolo,
un libro di un amico
si cade aperto
alle pagine giallo e disintegrano:

dove le sue parole salgono
come nebbia ed entrano in me
dalla ombre frammentazione
della scatola archivio.


Inglese/English

Fault Lines

Spitting rain, a tornado warning.
Something I made and sold
suddenly begins to crack, peel,
fall apart--

like she whom I behold
in the bathroom mirror
in the eddying waters of night.

That the Nigerian girls
have not been returned
so that there are now fault lines
in many hearts.

ii

Who can repair any of this,
what remarkable product
for wide household use
that fills all cracks.
What pot of decoupage glue,
itself designed to intimate
craqueleur--

What propinquity or propriety,
what secretary of state,
or fading doctrine
against war?

iii

These things cracking, peeling,
pulling away from each other,
despite their archival gloss, or
dust-coated glass--

That which should not, yet does:

That I cannot explain myself
to myself.
That our affiliation
is inexplicable
after the splintering
household years.

That there is someone I know
riding by on a bike
in a sodden hat
with a trotting pitbull at side,
that these two live in all weather
on the river flat.

iv

These are the things that adhere to me,
to you,
that claim our attention,

how a friend’s book falls open at dusk
to yellow and disintegrate pages,
where his words then rise like mist
and enter me
from the fragmented shadows
of the archive box.


copyright Jenne' R. Andrews 2014  jenneandrews2010@gmail.com .