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 .

Friday, February 4, 2011

Poem for Friday

Body Politic

I could give you fireflies and psalms
For your long nights--
But did you see that miner
Pulled out of the earth dancing
Running in the streets of New York, his
Elvis impression,
His was a joie d’vivre unleashed,
Surprising to us, we who worry
About airport searches, unfamiliar hands
Between our legs looking
For a knife, a Glock,  plastic

Explosives or the image of our genitalia viewed
By someone eating fried chicken in a back room
Closing his eyes in pleasure the crisp skin
Popping in his mouth missing that someone
Appearing to be pregnant boarding a jet
For our home town
Is really strapped to a bomb. 

I could rain down on your hunger
But we the body politic have forgotten how
To love and so we take
Our need out with us every day, dragging
These red wet trailing cords hiding
In cosmetics or feminine hygiene at the supra-
Mart, lying in wait—would you even take
A pharmacist home, kind and seraphic
In a crisp white coat,
Throwing a stethoscope around his neck, 
To tend you, verify
That you still desire? 

Or would you simply dance on
giving yourself to the fever that comes
when you see
that the seasons are a worn carousel
of fading color,  absence and presence
and you are on a horse that is breaking down,
unable to rise and rise
and fall —get back up
Or come from behind over
and over,  any longer


copyright Jenne' R. Andrews 2011
All Rights Deserved...


Maureen said...

You draw such wonderful contrasts in this poem, harsh with tender, and your images are evocative as always. So many I like, especially "the seasons are a worn carousel/ of fading color".

Fireblossom said...

I love love love the bit about taking the pharmacist home, kind and seraphic in a crisp white coat. I imagined a whole poem spun off from just that.

The metaphor of the horse is so sad.