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, April 9, 2012

New Poem: Lament of the Dark Horse

Lament of the Dark Horse

Sunday is a bright horse, glad of the early spring
This time, this year, it routs winter
Two months ahead of plum blossom roulette.

Rejection is the dark horse of all the days—how one sends
A sheaf of soul-work into the void
A spark from the torch of perseverance into the void

Where it catches fire in the land of no, not for us.

I ride the bright horse out to the carpeted meadows
Where the mares in foal drop their heads in gratitude.
I ask myself, where did it go wrong

This business of living in the garden of voices
The garden of the satiny red nodding heads

The perpetuity and indolence
Of the red red mouths—

Any man’s death diminishes me.

I am not a man and I live on
In a dimuendo, a fading away.
Still the bright horse waits patiently

For its embittered rider.
You editors, you flatulence on stalks
You spiny weeds;
You don’t know what a voice is.
You don’t know bel canto when you hear it.

In the blinding morning the day horse
The glad one, gallops me away
To the welts of the furrows

And then the dark horse overtakes us
As is its mission
Crowding us to the rail,

But Muse of Morning,
Perilous yearning of afternoon
I will not stripe your gilded hide.

March 31, 2012

1 comment:

Timoteo said...

Just had to grin and scratch myself when you called out those editors (so eloquently and accurately!)