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 .

Saturday, May 7, 2011

Poem: Revision

. The Wound Testifies

It is true that I am the beggar heroine of my own life.  It is true that I have
wounds that glitter in the sun like silver dollars baked into my skin.  It is true
that I have a mouthful of black butterflies at sundown.  But pain is.  Lies are.  
If you love and open the wound your heart is someone will pour black oil

Into it--  you will fold like a white silk scarf in the meaningless light of
afternoon.  You will want to die, but then if you can stand it a few
seconds longer, you will rise up, sit in the dusk where the clouds and
retreating sun make a bonfire scrim behind the trees. Have you seen

The way they reach and search, with the black branches against magenta
and orange light, the beggar heroine ascending from her despair like a
blackbird, in a few luminous minutes of delight.


I have wept and I have raged: is this not true of us, we who feel too keenly,
so that we are pierced by the merest whisper. I would like to have stones in
my breast, not flesh, not the pale weak flesh so readily seared by innuendos. 

I would like not to rise up like a matriarch owl, my wings beating over you
who live by wounding and cowardice. For lo, I am utterly sick of being
a wound, sick to death of death and the smell of death and rain and the
promise of rain only to have the sick sun beat down and parch the earth. 

I would love to be a clock, inanimate yet ticking away the seasons.  Or a
bomb that did some good, if  there were such a bomb, like safely moving
a collapsed house off a child even if it cost me my life.  Or to be someone

On fire with self-belief, who has not collected all of her tears like sapphires
in a velvet box or hour on hour, blunders on even when the shadows
feel like loving pale arms and the water waits, in  a wanton and green allure. 


copyright Jenne' R. Andrews 


Reflections said...

Stunning! Rich vivid imagery pervades your writing in such a profound manner, offering further depth and meaning beyond that which any word can say.

Mystic Margarita said...

Each word and imagery blew me away.

Caroline Gerardo said...

Heartfelt stones made my chest ache with relief from your poem.