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: firstname.lastname@example.org .
Sunday, April 10, 2011
Poem for Sunday: This Song We Know By Heart-- One Shoot Sunday
(imagining the girl in the photograph by Lauren Randolph as a poetess...visit the meme One Stop Poetry/One Shoot Sunday.)
This Song We Know by Heart
All of us write the same poem over and over
especially when the wind finds its way to us
in cold derision, prowling around our legs like a cat
In heat, needy, incessant. As if you are safe here
in the window, looking out at time flowing by with its scrim
of wavering budding trees. Sunday and families curled up
suppressing their hatred for each other, pretending
to love the rump roast set on the table with
the glassware and the pewter.
I once threw my mother's prized Staffordshire minute man
down the stairs. What does that make me but a broken
daughter. I once took my ice skates to the pond
and my father, drunk came looking for me, begging me
to come home, making promises but I sped away in my red
VW bug to the freeways lacerated
By wind from the eighteen wheelers passing me on the way
to South Dakota. I am caution-prone now, so that even though
my truck is road-worthy I cannot bring myself to shatter away
from here back to some point of origin: where is it, Chaco.
Corrales. Ramsey Hill.
The voice of the arriviste drones on and on; yes, we write the same
poems again and again, sing a requiem for the blackbirds until
we know it by heart. Someone gets a Guggenheim; someone else
hangs himself, not for one instant saved by literature
Although he had been declared a contemporary master. But the wind
dies down. The stars come back out and the mystery
rewrites itself on the skies of the mind so that then the defended heart
breaks down. We weep, and gather up our sheets of paper,
the credos we carry too close to the chest.
copyright Jenne' R. Andrews 2011