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 18, 2011

Two Poems Scribbled on a Cocktail Napkin in a Fever of Anxiety

I Wanted to Be Snow

It is again so late
and I hold this secret anguish inside me
I wanted to be snow and I was and then land
and for a time there were grey mares
verging like ghosts on a clearing

But is it a secret, perhaps a wound
or a marsh or an inland repository 
of old identities

Let me go it whispers
let me be your flock of paper birds
up there up there
where night blooms her stars

Had I opened my eyes I would have seen
that I typed gibberish
where I tried to  hold out hope
to myself
everywhere I look there are flaunting owls
and then the red vixens sideways
over the asphalt

Ride a cock horse to Bayberry Cross
and stop stop hemorrhaging on the white
white blanket
I murmur
pulling the dark around myself

I am one of those
who should have taken wing
before the ice storms came sheathing
And scything me
binding my beak to my breast.


I often write of the wound
And mine was a gaping thing
Stapled close in an uneven pattern
I packed it while it leached
Amber watery blood

And one day the nurse came
With pliers, cutting me out
Of the staples

But the wound throbbed
And beneath it metal shifted
Where tiny bits of poetry—or bone—
Had been
Nailed back together

I wore the wound on the outside
Too often

Because the light then hurt
And the dark looks of others

And when I couldn’t sleep
For old women
Recounting salty love stories at top voice

The wound I was raged
So the wound does
Open up others
With its serrated scalpel

And weeps in regret
Like the opening in the old woman’s leg
A pump sucks the pus from.

One day the wound
Rises, closes herself up
Wraps herself in clean bandages

Stumbles into the day
Stretches those broken and taped wings
Shakes night from her eyes

Suddenly aloft again
The multitudes call
From far, far away.

 All content copyrighted to Jenne' R. Andrews 2011


Buddha3074 said...

Excellent scribblings! Especially love the line,"red vixens sideways over the asphalt!" Good stuff! Fly high across the velvet sky!

jen revved said...

Thanks,Buddha..I"ll fly by...xxxj

Brian Miller said...

first....that is a huge napkin...smiles. and i would keep it as these are wonderful...particularly for me the second...viceral and tight...

jen revved said...

Thanks, Bri--xxxj

Tess Kincaid said...

Very nice. "...old women recounting salty love stories at top voice..." I love the picture this evokes.