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: firstname.lastname@example.org .
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Through a Glass Darkly This Morning
My old nemesis Insomnia has returned. I can't sleep. I've been up for days, getting fewer and fewer hours, crashing and getting six or seven hours, then up again and getting fewer hours, to crash again. I hate this.
Nothing makes me want to jump off a cliff more than not sleeping. How ironic that I've named the new blog The Spirited Word... I am in so much trouble.
Something about lying down in my so peaceful, pretty room in my apartment makes me feel vulnerable and vigilant. I think it's that I am caught between lives-- the old one in which I was afraid, stuck, helpless, and the new one in which I'm busy, happy and I feel like I'm about to turn 62 with some good years ahead.
Yesterday when I got tied up in my underwear about not resting I went out to "the place"--- actually D's house now, where we are horseless but still up to the ears in yellow cats and kittens. I went into my old room where I often rest for a few hours in between our great talks about writing....
I lay down in the musty, torn-lace dark and lay there from 4 in the afternoon until 9. I did get a nap and then I didn't want to kill all the cats: I was glad to see the little beggars..
But then I came home and it all started again; I've been torturing myself with the following, running the laments I've run before and that you've been so patient with::
I got angry at the surgeon who didn't tell me my leg was deforming and fled to the country where it deformed some more. Now, I'm stuck with a crooked leg three inches shorter than the other and the rest of my life in a walker and brace unless I face it all.
I think of the surgeon's saw near my leg again, which has taken three years to become strong enough for me to use it to walk with a cane-- and I wince, just thinking about it. How do you get past that? (yes, I have a new therapist, but she's so young I don't have a whole lot of confidence in her yet.)
And how do you get your trust back? How do you reclaim an innocence about all of the things and people you lose faith in and shut down toward-- the Church, doctors, people I was once close to.
So, the writer with a novel, a memoir, a collection of poetry, two blogs, who looked forward to a work day, is tied to the stake of exhaustion again.
I am tired. I want somebody else to do it, be the grown up and take care of me. I am so jealous of people who have husbands and wives. They've committed to support each other in adversity.
Years ago I had a child in my Poets in the Schools program write: "When you're alone, it makes you Capone." No shit!
These are the things that work on me when I can't sleep. This is the lonely corner I occupy at my lowest. I have been running, trying to feel safe in my own home and in my own skin for a very long time and have had to chip away at this immense chunk of self-doubt.
Chip, chip, chip, chip....tink tink tink tink.....