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, March 24, 2013

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

Not To Be Reproduced - Magritte


Would you say 
that the fact there is only one 
of each of us
is a good thing?

Mirrors tell us nothing.  
But when we slice into the heart,
magnifying a section of loamy tissue 
on a slide,
there is a tiny movie of fleeting days,
someone walking empty-handed
along a dirt road. 

Always, we are evading
when we think we are running toward.
As in how he seared me with his hands
and bent my spine to fit his body,

and I was on fire with questions
when he turned away into sleep.

What is this—does it mean
I am yours?  

He dreamed on and I retreated, 
slipping the diamond-cut
topaz from my finger and tossing it
into the blackbird slough
at the asphalt’s edge.

The back of someone leaving
always seems angry.
Even his raven's wing hair
wears the gloss of alienation.

When I am desperate
for you to see me
I break the mirror, 
say it was an accident:

A meteor or a piano
fell through the roof.

Then you
are all I have for a mirror:
if you wanted, if you dared,
you could refract me 
into a thousand stars.

To participate in Tess Kincaid's The Mag photo meme, where there are always brilliant responses, click here.  

copyright Jenne' R. Andrews 2013


Maureen said...

I like how you return us to mirrors at the end, how they become the metaphor for our seeing ourselves in others' reflections of us. I especially like the stanza beginning "The back of someone leaving. . . ." Such a beautiful series of images. I've always thought deeply saddening the act of watching someone go, leaving being its own kind of refraction.

Thank you for the generous words about the poem I wrote for my brother. I only realized recently that I can no longer hear the sound of his voice in my mind.

Laurie Kolp said...

Good to see you, Jenne. This is so good. I especially like the 2nd stanza.

Sue said...

A sad and smart poem. I liked it very much.