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 .

Tuesday, March 5, 2013

New Poem, for The Mag and Beyond...

Photo by The Fox and The Raven


We sit together in a dark solemnity.
The low rebuking wind is back,
its March sweep over sere grasses
lost to the tincture of rain.

We are moving the chess pieces
of argument, my Queen
felling your King.  We are once more
airing the laundry we had agreed
to let time and the sun consume.

This is a tunnel where standing water
spawns the algae of blame.
This is where the gargoyle-embellished
mirrors are hung
where I turn and look at my own face,
to see one eye hanging by a thread, 
underwhelmed by what it discerns
again and again.

Across these pallid, frigid hours
you recede from me,
withering, folding
like a spent poker hand
into the labyrinth of night,
your heart on lockdown, casino  
for the irretrievable.

As before
the dogs watch us, taking note
of the inflection of anger;
no one wins the game,
exulting in her pile of chips.
We have merely fed
the banked fire of dissolution
waiting in the doorway’s seam.

copyright Jenne' R. Andrews March 2013

To play chess with Tess Kincaid and the rest of us, click here  


Audrey Howitt aka Divalounger said...

Your work always floors me--Such a beautifully vivid write--

Maureen said...

As always, I find such distinctive images: "algae of blame", "doorway's seam"; and that incredibly visceral "one eye hanging by a thread". A unique take on the image; I particularly like the opening of stanza 2 and how you play out that game through the other stanzas. Your poems always stand out!

Ruth said...

Starting with "low rebuking wind" I'm pulled down with you into your poem's vivid world, and as always, I am uplifted, yes even in dissolution.