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 .

Friday, June 22, 2012

New Poem: Sotto Voce...

Sotto Voce

Sometimes I want to hear a voice
but not see the face
and sometimes the face appears
and recedes and dims
as if there were a two way mirror
in the soul

I often dream of the touch of hands
and then I see hands descending
gathering up the spent blossoms
sorting the long damp grasses

or there is a voice in the grove—
a low utterance of desire
and a recollection rippling through
an assent deep in the dusky hollows
of the body

and then I want to be tongue and soul
shed of all my burdens
lapping at the rain
my white breasts full, my long hair
flowing down my back

In the night I listen
for hands on skin, for the rain
of tears to start, to stop

for the faint whisper
of each craving thing
pulsing in the waning dark.


June 22, 2012

copyright 2012 Jenne' R. Andrews 


Maureen said...

Lovely, Jenne. Reading this is like listening to a symphony. The assonance and slight alliteration are lyrical.

This would make a wonderful videopoem, given the evocative imagery.

(Would you mind if I recorded a reading of this on my SoundCloud page?)

Timoteo said...

We watch. We listen. We wait. What are we in the end, but a combination of longing and memories?