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 .

Thursday, June 16, 2011

New Poem for Thursday June 16, 2011

The Moon in Her Red Dress

There's a lightness in things. Only we move forever burdened,
pressing ourselves into everything, obsessed by weight.
How strange and devouring our ways must seem
to those for whom life is enough.

Rilke, Sonnets to Orpheus II, 14. 

Lightening a life.  A lifeline to light,
The moon blushing—a tumescent
Hovering and supple moon

A lover’s face, too terribly near
And disconsolate.

Our bodies in their angular
Diffidence displace the earth. 
We pay the bone-tariff for burning through

Yet, the absence of newly
Fledged owls
The viral mottling of the cottonwood’s

Splayed leaves
Where it leans over the creek
An old woman with her string and hook.

O Roseate Moon, pregnant with ardor.
Your father Star, your mother Sea

Inspirare.  Inspire—ignite us!  We flee
The depths of the lair, look out
Into the night
For the possible.  If I said touch me here
And here

What would become of us
Would we freefall from the high wire?

Moon, blood-sister of heaven
Leach our cruelties from us

Come to the window
Lift us into your arms
With your red soldering iron
Burn away our lassitude

Infiltrate us, your spent, time-traveling
Lovers, your temporary employees,
You rouged, card-dealing
Trick-turning moon.

June 16, 2011
copyright Jenne' R. Andrews
all rights reserved.

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