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 .

Tuesday, October 19, 2010

Blog Carnival Poem: on the theme of condemnation

(please also see my new poem "On the Death of a Coloratura" one post down....J


"Love's not love/that alteration finds."


We condemn one another to a frayed
Silence, mute in the shadows.
In that lull cascades the dark water
Of our history together.
I wish it were bread
We ate by candlelight
I wish you would permit
My kissing away of the gnarls
Of your hands
The removal of the stone against
The mouth of your heart.

You sentence me to long navy blue
Relentlessly spangled
Midnights, the lonely trailing riff
Of the saxophone in my mind,
My endless order-making
Out of  the sheaf of old testimonials:
I want something else to do
With my hands

I open my mouth and if "you"
Is my first word it is likely
That I am embarking on a litany
Of condemnation
Blaming you
As if I had not chosen to return
And return
Dipping into the illegal well
You dug, rich with pink clay
The corpses of our kisses there
fine-boned and remarkable

No soporific to take
To calm the ache
Of observing
Our detente,
That no matter
the truth or the hurt of it
it would be heresy
To take you into my arms.


Maureen said...

Wonderful, Jenne. I'm so pleased you contributed this. I've tweeted it for you.

jen revved said...

Thanks, M-- another "love" poem....xxxj

Anonymous said...

Beautiful... thank you!

Laurie Blair said...

"relentlessly spangled midnights" -- oh, how I have been there - and wanted it to sound like this when a poet writes about it