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, April 18, 2011

Found Poem: Note

i don't know what happened.  we were at a picnic on the cliffs of Cornwall.  the moon was low on the sea; i had a mouthful of dark wine i let slip down my throat and we kissed.  i don't know what happened-- we were happy, sailing, swimming nude, feeding each other stale wedding cake.  Planning a trip to Paris.  You were writing and I was hungry and we kissed and the wine swirled in our throats.

I don't know what happened.  We were friends, reaching across oceanic differences and you reached through the glass somehow and stroked my cheek.  I tried to take off my armor but the buckles stuck.  I don't know what happened.  I don't know what switch got tripped and what I did in believing I was doing something good, writing of you, honestly.  But now in the deeps of the night I write to the Faure and read about a black drag queen drowned in the Hudson, of gay night life on the piers.  I want to live in a different world than this one.  I want to be transformed. i ricocheted off things others did-- forgive my vagueness-- I'm trying to be allusive. I was in WalMart just now dodging box cutter wielding robots to find miniature roses and there were none, only half-spent tulips flaring up against the white glare of the remodeled sheet rock.  I was looking for  you so that I know who I am.  But they say this is wrong.  So I made it back to the truck and dog, and  now, this requiem.


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