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 .

Sunday, March 6, 2011

A Poem for One Shoot Sunday...

Poem for One-Shoot Sunday, a photo prompt hosted by One Stop Poetry.  Here is the prompt, a photograph by Jacob Lucas , followed by my “take.”

On Touring an Abandoned Opera House in Bavaria

This is how the set looked after 
Standing ovations brought the house down
And the roof melted in the rain.

Here then is where an angel sang
In a pearl-bright gown at the apron
Like a refugee from paradise

And I would close my eyes, trembling. 
I stood in line for a ticket in the weather
Sat in the gods, highest tier

Her voice would pierce me there;
I would walk rapture’s tightrope
When she distilled longing into light.

I am the one who threw roses
From the balcony’s darkest corner
I was there in Cologne the night

She sang Alcina, thawing all of Bavaria.
I have feasted on her bel canto like bread
And when I see the darkened proscenium

The scrim of the heather asunder
I conjure striking night after hours
When the ghost crew comes in drunk

To deal death blows to the set
But cannot quench the arboreal fire she left
For Traviata’s chandelier.

I walk along a bridge over the park
The roving moon defines
For the bereft.

I know that he tucks her in each night
Pressing her like a spent orchid
Between his hands 

Her nearly sepulchral face
Tear-stained, lunar white
In the stilled room’s shadows

Forever, the one true Lucia.
Here a closet diva aches for a reprisal,
Reliving every silver-throated run.

copyright Jenne' R. Andrews 2011



Beachanny said...

Wow and wow, wow, wow. Sutherland in Lucia di Lammermoor. I was there and you held me in the suspense of your words and the longing of your heart. Brava!

Brian Miller said...

a refuge from paradise...great description...this has a haunting feel to it...may the diva step from her closet..

Anonymous said...

Jen this was so touching. Very much enjoyed the read, awesome workx

dustus said...

You made both the performance and the aftermath come to live. Beautiful descriptive writing.

Fireblossom said...

I love the ghost crew coming in drunk. And the ghosty moonlit ending.

hpicasso said...

one of the best I've read lately...many good points in imagery, staccato phrasing and lines

"thawing Bavaria"...who needs the word heat, when you come up with this

Peace, hp

hpicasso said...

one of the best I've read lately...many good points in imagery, staccato phrasing and lines

"thawing Bavaria"...who needs the word heat, when you come up with this

Peace, hp

Steve Isaak said...

Perfect, love this. My fourth favorite entry (in order of reading) in this week's entries. Amazing, sublime, all that.

Anonymous said...

The passions of opera are, of course, eternal, so of course there are angels in attendance of every performance, enthralled with the the magic of the human heart and voice, so fragile, mortal, yet filled with a yearning that blows off rooftops in Heaven. Such a fine, fine poem here, so filled with life-in-death, the wild bouquet which is the resonance of all those lost singing nights. - Brendan

Alegria Imperial said...

As exquisite as an aria, as haunting as Lucia de Lammermoor's moaning, as grand in passion as all opera--thank you for your 'delivery' right here. Thank you for sparing me the anxiety of whether or not a seat has not been taken, of meeting a scalper in the line who'll take my money for a ticket with the wrong date, wrong time that I fail to see in my excitement as well as greed; thank you for a seat that allows me to listen and sit here all I want, long after the curtains come down and the sets have been unmasked and torn down. Brava!