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, January 18, 2011

Carry on Tuesday prompt/poem...

For Carry on Tuesday

"And this is how I remember them..."  Tennessee Williams,  Glass Menagerie

A Letter Home

How I remember you:
your abrupt leavetaking
glasses on your desk, 
resting on my poems.
Your worn pajamas on the bed
I climbed into that night
I drove home to bury you,
summers, your mascot while you dozed
pulled over on the desert highway

That you binged on whiskey
then begged our forgiveness
that you kept on
While we watched you run out of air
That you called me whispering
I can't do it anymore.
That I couldn't get a plane
In time
So that the neighbor was my proxy
Mother useless and trembling at the bedside

That now, when I space out
the turn west 
to spare myself,
when I drive past our old house
on the hill, where you planted
pine tree seedlings one year

I wish we had scattered your ashes
out on the Pawnee Grasslands
and not left them 
on the homely acreage we sold

Wondering if what a therapist
said was true
about why I used to give myself
black eyes
--that you loved me too much--
and that I can't remember
more than one drunken kiss when I was five,
confusion shooting through me like fire

Oh and I remember,
stone by laid down stone
on the altar in my study
forgiving you 
because you paid in spades

Selling the place
moving on
not moving on
coming back
lingering at an invisible grave
my hand moving on the pillow

Like someone writing 
an endless letter home
packed with questions
and reassurances

To the one I haven't said
good-bye to I couldn't save
who faded into time
before my very eyes.

Jenne' R. Andrews

scroll down for previous prompt-- my mistake

Responding to the quote/prompt “We are each the love of someone’s life” –A.S. Greer…Carry On Tuesday

Carpe diem

Of anyone’s life I am not the love
I do not live with thee to prove a pleasure
I am martyred to a motion of my own

Still, a motion not my own holds sway
I gather rosebuds
And the force that through the green fuse
Drives the flower
Drives me east and out of Eden

Where the bee sucks
There sucked I once upon a dream
I am martyred, dumb to tell,
To cull the rosebuds while I may

When two roads diverge in a yellow wood
I measure time by how a body sways
My battered heart’s a blinded flower

(Weaving together or referencing--for fun--  the words of John Donne, Robert Herrick, Robert Frost, Dylan Thomas, Shakespeare, John Steinbeck, Theodore Roethke—and A.S. Greer.)

I knew a woman—Roethke
Gather Ye Rosebuds  Herrick
The Road Not Taken- Frost
The force that through the green fuse  Thomas
East of Eden  Steinbeck
Twelfth Night—the Bard…
Easter Monday, Driving Southward
Batter My heart…– John Donne


Maureen said...

"A Letter Home" reads like fragments of scenes unfolding, pieces we remember from the full act. There's poignancy in the forgiving of things unresolved.

The second poem - a cento, no? - is creative and the choice of poets to combine, inspired.

Carry On Keith said...

Each piece is an absolute delight. Quite how you found your way to the old Carry On Tuesday site I don't know! The current one is at http://carryontuesdayprompt.blogspot.com/

Kerry O'Connor said...

Your letter home is an incredibly moving piece of writing - the grief, guilt and inability to forgive all resonate through every line. An extraordinary poem.