WELCOME! BENVENUTI!

Professor Jenne' Rodey Andrews, M.F.A., is a highly regarded American poet, critic and memoirist. Recent work has appeared in former Autumn House Publisher Michael Simms' Vox Populi (over fifteen poems) The Passionate Transitory, Belletrist Coterie, The Adirondack Review and elsewhere.

Andrews' current ms of poetry Beautiful Dust was a finalist for the 2014 Autumn House and she recently withdrew the work from Salmon Ltd, Ireland to protest unmoderated bashing of American writers by Irish writers on the press's social media pages.

Her most recent collection, Blackbirds Dance in the Empire of Love, lauded by Robert Bly and endorsed by poets Jim Moore, Dawn Potter and Patricia Kirkpatrick, appeared from Finishing Line Press 2013. A booklength collection Beautiful Dust was 2014 finalist for the Autumn House Press Poetry Prize and solicited by Salmon Press, Ireland. Turning on work set in the West and her native Southwest the collection is under submission to 2019 publication prizes.

Andrews is currently hard at work on two new memoirs: The Shame Garden: A Woman Writes of Isolation, Despair and Self-Redemption, which in intensely wrought and imagistic prose poetry chronicles the anatomy of shame; it is the poet's late-in-life tour d'force, sending the reader through Dante's circles of hell, the sewers of Paris ala Les Mis, mano a mano confrontations with the Alien mater familias, fusing literary and vintage cinematic works in an elliptical dance with human history and experience of being Other. The poet has no idea of what will become of this work but hopes it finds a home as memoir with a small press.

A four part interview with Andrews went live at poet Maureen Doallas's blog Writing without Paper in 2010.

Other collections include the full-length Reunion, Lynx House Press, The Dark Animal of Liberty, Leaping Mountain Press, and In Pursuit of the Family, edited and published by Robert Bly and the Minnesota Writers Publishing House.

Her work has been anthologized in Heartland II, Northern Illinois University Press, 25 Minnesota Vols. I and II, Wingbone: An Anthology of Colorado Poetry, Women Poets of the Twin Cities, Oil and Water and Other Things that Don't Mix, and elsewhere.

Essays have appeared in MPR's Magazine, The Colorado Review, The Twin Falls Times News, and miscellaneous journals.

IIt is Prof. Andrews' belief that one's collection of poetry must be judged on the quality of its craft, voice, and language, not its themes.


With Mr. Bly the memoirist Patricia Hampl wrote a forward to her first collection and is considered the "mother" of the modern American memoir although she arguably shares this title with Mary Karr for Karr's The Liar's Club. Andrews mentored Karr in Minneapolis when the former was circa 19.

Professor Andrews has had an illustrious teaching career at Colorado State University and the University of Colorado where she taught prelaw students in the making of argument and the issues-oriented seminar The American West. She was the highest rated instructor in the University Writing program during her tenure at Boulder.

Currently Professor Andrews writes daily at age 70, having been rendered housebound in 2007 in a fall from a horse, at home with her lover and companion of thirty years the fiction writer Jack Brooks, ten new poems a month, and is working on an additional memoir about her pioneer roots, "Territory Fever: The Story of an Albuquerque Family," posted as chapters are finished to Loquaciously Yours where the poet has produced over 450 essays in the past decade on a variety of topics as well as book reviews. Upcoming: a review of Ethna McKiernan's new Salmon Collection.

Ms. Andrews is also a Civil Rights Advocate advocating in 2019 for the civil rights of the poet Ping Wang who recently won the AWP Award for Memoir.

In 2015, after a long battle, Andrews extracted her MFA in Creative Writing/Poetry from Colorado State University, begun and finished in the 80's, self-advocating under the Americans with Disabilities Act. In fact Andrews was instrumental in the Colorado Commission on Higher Education's approval of the MFA at CSU.

She is a literary fellow of the National Endowment for the Arts, the Minnesota Arts Board Fellowship, was short-listed for a Bush Foundation Fellowship, 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, one of the first poets to inaugurate The Loft Literary Center, co-founding Women Poets of the Twin Cities which as noted boosted the careers of Mary Karr, Ethna McKiernan and others, and spent the summer of 1973 in Reggio Calabria, Italy which gave rise to the "voluptuous prose-poetry" memoir Nightfall in Verona posted in entirety here, designated by arts maven and former friend Caroline Marshall of NPR The Writer Reads as "fabulous."

Circa 2010 Andrews also founded a poetry group on She Writes which included Dawn Potter, Katha Pollock and other noteworthy writers, and supported the work of Meg Waite Clayton, fiction writer in addition to mentoring a number of other up and coming writers.

There is no way to estimate the influence on the lives and work of the some 12,000 students k-12 she met and encouraged in the seventies, but the poet James Tolan has attributed his career to her work as it was anthologized in Heartland II, Lucien Stryk, Editor. Professor Stryk read the title poem of In Pursuit of the Family on NPR.

As noted the poet lives in northern Colorado's Poudre River Valley with her husband, fiction writer Jack Brooks; the couple's daily life is centered around writing and enjoying their beautiful imported Golden Retrievers;-- see the Ardorgold website for details. Contact: jenneandrews2010@gmail.com.

Signed copies of the Blackbirds Dance collection, endorsed by James Moore, Patricia Kirkpatrick and Dawn Potter, are available from the poet. She posts new work below and is available for mentorship and virtual readings via Skype.

She is happy to critique ms. of poetry, fiction and memoir for a small fee.

Showing posts with label jenne andrews lament jenne andrews elegy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label jenne andrews lament jenne andrews elegy. Show all posts

Tuesday, July 26, 2011

New Poem: Psalm for the Alienated

Join us this Friday for Friday Poetry Fest -- xj 







Psalm for the Alienated

All night the cocks crew, under a moon like day,
And I, in the cage of sleep, on a stranger's breast,
Shed tears, like a task not to be put away---
In the false light, false grief in my happy bed,
A labor of tears, set against joy's undoing.
I would not wake at your word, I had tears to say.
I clung to the bars of the dream and they were said,
And pain's derisive hand had given me rest
From the night giving off flames, and the dark renewing.

--Tears in Sleep,  Louise Bogan.



No palliative yet for the hurting place yes
The dark, deepened wound within
The insistent weeping that craves
Shadow’s discerning fingers

Each of us tapping out our Morse code
To one another tap tap tapping
And yet the wound of dark spreads
Over the land like sweet sargasso
And the cicadas wake
For their evening’s work

Accompaniment to solitude,
Lyric for the abandoned.
The one listening for the palpable
If only a kestrel’s plunder cry.

When did this alienation start
She asks, that one
I paid in ripened wheat
To open the tight fist
of my heart 

I was in an orange grove
Over the sea
My hands among the laden boughs
And someone pushed me
Into the briny soil.

But so are we all
Set upon at times
And repudiated
Even by our own.

This—she said to me
Or a voice within me
Whispered.

And to these chimerical forms
Within forms I replied

I have tears to say:
Have you counted
The many deaths
Worldwide, at this hour
The stalemates and overdoses?
Have you seen the weeping roses
On the impromptu graves?

I wait here for the cicada song
For the golden flags of autumn
For the memory of a kiss
To burn like the kiss itself.

I wait for the ballast of this body
To fall away. 
I pray that the spirit soars free

In translucent updraft
With each spiral shedding skin on skin
Of self-forsaking folly
And failed intention.



 cc

Copyright Jenne' R. Andrews 2011 All Rights Reserved   jenneandrews2010@gmail.com 

Monday, July 25, 2011

Poem for Monday: Lament for the Children of the Fjords


Photo Reuters -- Mourners in Oslo



Lament for the Children of the Fjords.

Swaddled we woke to morning larks
Blissful in the cocoon of the blanket
Taking our nourishment from the breast.

With our butterfly vulnerabilities
We walked to school
At our backs
Bread and lullabyes.

The child needs to return many times
Before she pushes off
Against the family’s shore
Trying her long arms.
Her strong legs.

She needs to see them
Waving, assuring her
She is safe
Even far away.

Emboldened, raised up
Half-grown, we swam to the island.
We made camp.
We built fires.

From space
You can see the moment
Of history’s diversion,
A new scar on Earth’s soul.


No one comes into the world
Asking to be devastated


But where we were
A garden of corpses
Rivers of blood
A luminous sea of flowers.






copyright Jenne' R. andrews 2011

Saturday, July 23, 2011

New Poem: Abend Lieder





Abend Lieder


Slowly evening takes on the garments
held for it by a line of ancient trees.
You look, and the world recedes from you.
Part of it moves heavenward, the rest falls away...
And you are left, belonging to neither fully...

 -- Rilke, Evening 


Left, done in, concluding human
You belong to neither
World.  Not the green one
Alfalfa’s redolent windfall
Stretching off to the Wyoming border

Promising enough-- enough for all.

Not the world light sears
With her very hands
Calling us toward each other
Out of our scarecrow sleep

Then belonging neither
To summer nor to light.
You know your true home

The evening, the crepuscule
Where each thing is taken up
In the slow-motion
Onslaught of night

See where the horse stands
Before the frieze of elms
Looking out at the dusk

Now, see her vanish
So that we by faith
know that she drops her head
To crop the dry July grass
Soothed by evening’s hands.

Oh yes, meine Abendsliebe
My notte d’amore
I know you

You rescue me
From my world-weariness.
You give me the compline
Of the palomas
In their dreaming cloister

You dress me
In a waterfall of lavender
Take into your star-laced body
The cooling stones of my fear.





 copyright Jenne' R. Andrews 2011.  To enjoy a Rilke poem each day visit A Year with Rilke hosted by Ruth Mowry and Lorenzo "Lapislazuli".  I have found these posts to be wonderful prompts.  

Sunday, July 17, 2011

Two Poems for Monday and Magpie Tales

Two poems-- mask prompt generated second poem.  xj 
1.

Haddon Hall, Elizabethan England

On Remembering an Old Novel

We are bees of the invisible. Passionately we plunder the honey of the visible in order to gather it in the great golden hive of the invisible.  Rilke

Among the yellowed pages of the worn novel
Lithographs of an English girl
Hair upswept, skin pale as bone china
By the third reading
I knew her heart and soul
And she came to dwell within me
Dorothy Vernon of Haddon Hall

I lived with her there, behind the oak door
On the moors of England
In the century before the century
Before.

Oh, the luminous heather
The tended fire in the parlor
The loyal black dogs.
I rode behind her, my arms
Around her waist
On her night sprint on horseback
To rendezvous with a forbidden love

At night I held the book close
When my mother rose up
Like a banshee from her half-sleep
Regaling the adobe, the eggshell
containing our family,  with curses

So that I was shaken
I would remember that I lived in Haddon Hall
I was the girl a knight adored

I was the virgin in the garden
With unbound hair
Sewing my wedding dress.

Many dreams remain locked
In old books
Many tales of courage
The honey of language

How  like little bees
We sip, dream, weep there,
Privately yielding ourselves
To an unreachable world.


copyright Jenne' R. Andrews 2011






Warrior Mask
2. 


An Old Mask Sings


Now you cannot pierce me
nor blind me
nor cut my tongue from my throat.
I have proofed myself against
the fires of hell


Warrior I
striding into the very sea

immune to the wrath of the Siren
and the surging sea-mammal's jaws.


Who am I
I have bound my sex from you
I live by wit alone
on the salt flats
of the Messina Strait
As you like it and when
you dream


I strike like the brazen lightning
to make your mortal empire 
eternally mine.


3-- Again, the Mask



When truth’s afraid she loves a good mask
A porcelain clown with acrylic tears
A satin ballroom feint over the eyes
A burkah at the well

A mask of innocence, a mask of guilt.
And how is there a mask of guilt:
Some draw arrows away
From the fleet gazelle
Making of themselves
A true prey. 
The crowd, scenting plunder
wheels like a band of crows

Descending on a martyr,
Feeding frenzy of shame on you.



x
When I saw this prompt I thought about the centuries of incursion by Rome and others of Calabria, my spiritual home, specifically the fishing village of Scylla.  This area is one of the most mythical places in the world-- Homer set the battle of Scylla and Charybdis here and sent Odysseus into the fray.  I spent a few weeks there in 1973 in the arms of a delectable, sweaty, tender Calabrian man I met in Verona.  He wrote The Song of the Resistance in my journal with a fountain pen and picked a wild rose I pressed in the journal.  See my memoir Nightfall in Verona, posted in its entirety.  xj 




Thanks to Tess Kincaid and Magpie Tales for this disturbing and interesting prompt.  xj 





 Wikipedia has a wonderful discussion of this novel that was a best seller in 1902 and quite a wonderful story involving the Monarchy and Mary Queen of Scots: I had the first edition, given to me by my grandmother, Helen Rodey Stamm, daughter of Bernard S. Rodey. 

Thursday, July 7, 2011

New Poem for Weekend 1 - Contagion





Names of the Missing -  Oil on Canvas  Stuart Codington Andrews


Note: the epigraph of the following poem is in italics. My poem starts after it.   Links to SC Andrews' View Gallery and Kerry O'Connor's poem in full follow the poem.   




Contagion

….Blank-eyed,
               (mute to the sun, deaf to the
                            trees, blind to wind)
they come: the Children come hurtling
through the hay....  
See my hands?
               (Thinly-sliced, white-webbed
                             scars, freshly bleeding.)
And my face, the diagonal cuts crying like
hungry new mouths?...  

from the poem Catcher, by Kerry O’Connor**.



What I have left of you
Like a tow-head catcher in the wheat

An oblique contagion
Inferences of affiliation

Like the whisper of the ripe field
Where the larks sway
On moist skyscraping ladders—

The tall wheat, bowed
To imminent harvest.

So are we bowed, waiting.
Caught, of and with you

In time’s unfurled
blue waterfall of epitaphs

Le bonne heure:  the hour
Of  hours, quel plaisir—that pleasure

So monumental I trembled
For years.

Received from you
Love’s glint in the brown eyes

Above me, like Gabriel
Descending

Or when I was looking down at you
Swaying on my stalk
Like the maternal wheat

Ripe, la madura de la madre--
Feeding you the bread of my body.
  
Amore.  Listen now
To the bell song of the wheat
Las campanas
En los campos

And the expectant tingling
Of  tines in the barn
The combine, waking
Shaking off its rust.

ii

Can you hear me, amor
From the black lap
Of the ash
Al hondo de las cenizas
The depths of the ashes

Can you see us
The dark-haired girls
In the pumpkin patch
The rabbits
Los conejos corriendos
Running for their lives

Can you hear
The far off cry of the children
Looking for you

In the honeyed light
Of endless afternoon--

Make out the word
“Father!”
De sus bocas tan pequenas
From their tiny mouths..

ii

O please
Orita, mira mis manos
See these hands now
Not look at them—but see.

See where I tried to cut
Love’s tendon
And the red blood of the truth
Spurted from the vein

So that I sutured you
Back into me.

See, look back, remember
Recuerda
Make your reconnaissance
Like the hungry-eyed owl
Over the surging pastures
The virulent green morning.

I adored you.  Ti adore’.

Now see the scars fade away
Hear the din of the harvest die down

The ashes whisper among themselves
Where shall we go?  Which way
North, West.

Y orita  para que viento?
And now, by what wind.






cc
Jenne' R. Andrews
July 8, 2011


All rights reserved


Read Kerry O'Connor's gorgeous poem "Catcher"  in full here.
See other work by Stuart Codington Andrews here.



ccc

Thursday, June 30, 2011

Poem for Thursday - Psalm for the Lost Child











Psalm for the Lost Child

My hands are bloody from digging.
I lift them, hold them open in the wind,
so they can branch like a tree.

Reaching, these hands would pull you out of the sky
as if you had shattered there,
dashed yourself to pieces in some wild impatience.

What is this I feel falling now,
falling on this parched earth,
softly,
like a spring rain?


Rainier Maria Rilke,  Digging for God, The Book of Hours II, 34


The heart extends her witching stick

Where might love be found?

With innocence, in the cradle
Where the infant rocks
With her small moony head

Reflected, as in the eyes
Of the old horse shifting
Foot to foot, looking out
At the green fields

In the hands as they gather
The rinsed white shirts up
And pin them to the line

As they knead and knead
Until the dough glistens

So that something new is made
Where nothing was?

I have grasped at the sky
With my infinitely sad fingers
I wear the alphabet of the stars
As a necklace.

I have sewn a rainbow
Stretched it over the heavens
An Aurora Borealis.

But tell me, how shall I recover
From the severing of my hands
From the dissolution of my will
in the milk of my  tears.


Ii

Lost child, daughter of time
How could anyone
Who ever suckled you
Stop your breath?

Reaching into the loam these hands
Would bring you back to life

Inflate your lungs
Coat your bones with flesh

O lost child.  Child of smiles
Child of kites
Little amphibian.

We have argued
Over the parts of you
Found in the grove

We have battled
With the faith
Of children walking into the sea

Swimming toward justice
The ungodly mirage.



 copyright Jenne' Andrews  2011