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 .

Wednesday, March 16, 2011

Notes on the Crisis...


Whether or not retribution was ever divine is beside the point now.  We swarmed over the earth and set in motion these flaring cause and effect hours; radioactive smoke is there on the horizon and we are at the wind’s mercy.  A small boy playing in the sand looks down to see that his feet shine and the impatient taffeta sea roils back.

I am the stranded fish striated with light and dark and if you feed upon me you will die.   I am my brother’s keeper and I am afraid.  Far off like ants creeping over a hill the brave toil around the plant.  Our enemy and lover the sea does what she can in bucketfuls strung from the armored dragonflies come to quench flames that lick at the reactor.

What is a meltdown, someone asks.  A flash of light is something terrible.  People run and fall down, on fire.  For years, apples taste of metal and the rice is dark and spoiled.  We run toward our brother shouting that water is coming again and the shopkeeper looks down at his golden watch, locks the door, lies down on the floor.  The grandmothers are pent up, wailing from the inner rooms that are then swept away.

Flood, fire, famine; the weary heart can’t stand it all.  The sun balances on the horizon a paper ship and when it sinks it is a hole in time. 

A ghost looks down from the Enola Gay and shudders away, veering then toward the earth to crash the plane before the payload spirals down.  Now the hands of the watch spin backward.  Now eyes to eyes, lovers surrender to each other a final time before they are returned to Eden as children, the backyards and the banyans, where the gibbons play and there is laughter.

We cannot go to heaven; it must come to us.  Someone has mastered the Credo in Unum Deum of the B Minor Mass so that a small choir has gathered on the shore and sings it a cappella.   When we prayed to be enlightened and for the purification of the heart, for the mind to be irradiated, made to glow, we did not mean this.   

1 comment:

Brian Miller said...

fabulous prose...we can not get to heaven, not not in our own but we often think...and some of the religeous responses to this really piss me off...sorry your opening line took me there...