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, June 20, 2011

New Poem for Monday: Written to Rilke

This is the latest poem in the series I began last week to the image and quote posted at A Year with Rilke.  Using quote and image together has worked well for me.  xj 

Painting:  A Bedroom at Arles, Vincent Van Gogh

Written to Rilke, Listening to Netrebko

I would like to sleep once with each thing, nestled in its warmth; to dream in the rhythm of its breathing, its dear, naked neighborliness against my limbs, and grow strong in the fragrance of its sleep. Rilke—early writings.

There is the sleep we have with the camellia pink
pulse of self
The sleep of deference to solitude, how a dark corner
Where your head rests pulls you away
From the world, turning your soul inward,
To weave a net for desire.

And the sleeping with something wilder—a dream quick
To scatter into the twilight.  Speaking to that dream
Cautiously, so that it stays, breathes against your hair

And memory.  Memory the guaranteed lover, reverie
The bridge over time, the green creek with its silt of small bones
Beneath the strained bridge.  For the dream come to life
makes the memory and then each one
A white moth pressed against the screen
Through which light flows, as if to say
I am all you have.


copyright Jenne' R. Andrews 2011 all rights reserved 

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