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 .

Monday, March 21, 2011

New Poem

A Lenten Letter to Other American Poets

I’ve been reading you, all of you and I have to say
Coming from behind, behind because of the years
Wherein I fell prey to the mothering of creatures
On land in Colorado I can see I must morph into the strongest fish
Now to swim anywhere but around and around the intractable rock

In the creek of compacted and contracted and laved
Lava that is the conglomerate poem the huge poem we write together
As if we were piecing a quilt out of the universe—stars at the center
Implode and we start over and the pressure builds until we have a counterpane
Of sky and years and terrors and drift…such drift toward one another
And then away

Ah, yes, the strong fish, the striated and stretched one, the limousine in the currents
With her tinted windows and her smoothness, the one saving her best arcs from the water
For toward the end of the race; who will spawn the next book, who has eaten the hook and then the junked and rusted pile of all of those who tried to be so clever
Their gills gave way to hollows of darkness; they surged too near the surface, were mistaken for larded seals and were harpooned.

I praise you I need you I fear you.  I want you to read me and to go away.  Like it or not
We are the choristers in the balcony of time and below us the phantom priests and their lifting wings, preparing the feast and the way so that we the damned have absolutely no choice, until the last breath, but to live bareheaded there in the light, in the manifold praises and curses of our language, our singing.

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