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

Post Father's Day, A Poem - Transgression.


Ours was an illicit love
All we had or knew together
Driving across Arizona
In simmering heat;

I had the Atlas open on my small lap
Where we were, a dot
Our destination off the map.

In the frigid cabin air
Mother/wife away
In the state loony bin

I didn’t want you to cry.
I crept to you
Held you in my arms
Your haggard scotch breath
Against my shoulder.

Your hands wandered out of fatherhood.
I called to you from a nightmare
I knew, as I changed,
Curved, bled

How very wrong to crave you
For my own.

But a father is a father still
no matter his sins.

Post-mortem, I sifted your ashes 
through my fingers
At night, the house emptied
I put on your pajamas 
A woman and a child.


copyright Jenne' R. Andrews 2011


Maureen said...

From your first line that draws such attention, to the second stanza that lets us know we're going some place unexpected ("off the map"), thus strengthening the meaning of that word "illicit", the reader is impelled to read through the set scene to that wrenching "I didn't want you to cry", that suddenly makes "Your hands wandered out of fatherhood" explode. That the child sees herself not as victim but wrong-doer ("How very wrong to crave you / For my own") underscores what seems such desperate need and imbues the line "But a father is a father still" with aching clarity. The poem, for me, ends - and powerfully so - at that line.

jen revved said...

Thank you, Maureen. Hard to have posted this and others have been silent. Your comment is so kindly, generously complete-- thank you. Thanks too for the tip on Nic-- I contacted her about the nano "deal." xxxj

jen revved said...

I have the full version saved and I'll try it per your suggestion--- I think you may be right although it now seems a bit truncated to wordy me. Thanks again. xj