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 .

Sunday, October 2, 2011

Poem for DVerse Poets Poetics Prompt: Pop Art

Requiem pour l’enfant perdu

Bring in the clowns…thank goodness,
They’re here.  Leonard  Cohen

And so was the boy man flung into death
As if off a building but not by intention
So that he lay on a white shore
Spread-eagled, arms wide apart
Eyes god-ward, mouth parted
As if he had tried to embrace
And reassure the sky

At the bedside the poison drip
The line to the catheter in the leg
The pump bringing not sleep
But oblivion

Forget the Caribbean medic and his foolish
Greed.  This death
Was written into time on the first
Of a thousand and one injections
The first of a million and one tablets
Under the tongue.

The lost boy, clowning, tattoed on
A red grimace
ranged far and wide
From his Big Top circuitry of trains
And lonely elephants

To Bahrain, to Ireland, toiling
Through denial’s arid kingdom
Bearing his fears on his back
Like a dwarf his hump.

It’s alright now; life has put all aright
With its broadly artful death
How we may send ourselves up and out
of this world

Like smoke, a dissolving writ of many sorrows
And delusions of redemption and windfall
that falter at the last like one-winged doves
from a Pagliacci’s sleeve.

copyright Jenne' R. Andrews 2011

1 comment:

Ann Grenier said...

Fantastic write Jen. Happened upon your poem after reading for D'verse. He was a tragic figure, marked man, for whom I had nothing but contempt during his lifetime. In my oh so subtle intolerance, I considered him the devil incarnate. My grandaughter watched the movie Free Willy the other day here, in which Jackson sang the theme song dressed in black and white,mimicing the dance of the whale. I was about to fast forward but actually found his performance mesmerizing and beautiful in that context. Beauty and the Beast in us all, perhaps this is my prayer for his soul.