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, January 20, 2013

New Poem: Palpation, for Magpie Tales and Beyond.....

This poem inspired by the photograph up at The Mag today; do participate, and many thanks, Tess, for this Sunday delight.  xj 


I have my hands on her plump belly
again and again.
The fetus in the amnion slips away
to the country beneath the ribs.
That is what I want to think--
not a black and migratory lump  
not-alive in a certain sense.

My father traces the jutting canker
of the aspen; the growth
that goes looking in the night.
The opportunist with its artillery
of metastasis.
That thing we find in the breast
like a frozen body in a snowfield.

It’s inevitable.  It happens all the time.

Did he say that to his child?
Did he touch her?

Fear is like the snowfield
where the hands themselves freeze;
even though we count on them
to reclaim, to wave-- here I am
to speak on our behalf, 
when we are mute.

Do they know where home is?
Is it far?  Or, will the glacial years
gather momentum, their white memories
flowering frame by frame,
like the frost-clenched tulip.

And who will sing to she who is buried
beneath the flaring fields of  snow?

copyright Jenne' R. Andrews January 2013 


Maureen said...

What an amazing poem for that prompt. As always, so many vivid images ("the jutting canker/ of the aspen"; "opportunist with its artillery / of metastasis" just two) and one that stops me is "Fear is like the snowfield / where the themselves freeze;..." Lyrical and lovely.

Karen S. said...

Lovely effective prose, rich in feelings and clearly brings deep emotions to a deeply rich, boiling point! Nicely done.

Berowne said...

Insightful and wise...

SueAnn Lommler said...

Wow! You took me a quite a journey!
And I liked the trip

Elisabeth Kinsey said...

Ditto. There are so many images in this that resonated with me. The frost-clenched tulip, the snowfield and white memories. Love it.

Tess Kincaid said...


Audrey Howitt aka Divalounger said...

Your work is always mesmerizing. Lovely piece!