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 love poem. Show all posts
Showing posts with label jenne andrews love poem. Show all posts

Sunday, November 20, 2011

Recent Poem: Storm Warning for Magpie Tales and Beyond....




Storm Warning

Waking a terrible fire skims along my bones
it is the fire of recognition
just as the world is a great candle burning down
so are we melting to tallow
in the tabernacles of darkness, each in his room

A twitching dog nearby, the furnace
groaning on and off
like something begging for euthanasia.
Soon this ark you brought here
for our home will halve again; this time
it will be one shove from the Wyoming wind
or the forest ablaze come for the dry poplars’ tinder--
or a thin yellow lab report

Of a leukocyte invasion
at the base of my spine or
as if we were woolly mammoths time
has decided should die by immersion
in ice
the moon will spill her cream upon us
and we will freeze in place and whiten.

We will have been in the middle
of Pavarotti singing La Donna e Mobile
we will have been lifting a forkful
of peaches and honey
to our mouths and there will be
a tremor under our feet so that the earth
opens up;

At first I will not go gently
but you will touch my hair
we will descend together
we will pass seraphim mouthing
kyrie eleison

We will join the mailman
and the neighbor whose hay
is rained upon when he mows
And Dante
and Hemingway and Plath

We will step into War and Peace
with our hair on fire
we will hear cries from the gulag
there will be news of another pogrom

I will bend over you and brush your mouth
with mine and you
will squeeze my hand
and eyes to eyes we will of one accord
assent to the weeping and brutal dark.




Jenne' R. Andrews 





 This evocative photo, posted by the lovely Tess Kincaid, is of Paul Newman and Joanne Woodward.
To participate in Magpie Tales and read marvelous work, click here.  xj 


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copyright Jenne' R. Andrews 2011

Saturday, July 30, 2011

New Poem for Saturday: Roy McBride In Memoriam

On July 29 the wonderful black  poet Roy McBride, so beloved by the Minnesota writing community and beyond and forefather of spoken word poetry, succumbed to a long illness.  Roy and I used to talk for hours on the tin roof of my studio in St. Paul that overlooked the Mississippi.  He was love incarnate.  There are videos made by the wonderful Mike Hazard available on You Tube.     Many thanks to Lorenzo Lapislazuli and Ruth Mowry for the combined Chagall painting and Rilke quote from A Year with Rilke.  xj 




The House with the Green Eye  - Marc Chagall



Three Little Poems
To the memory of the great Roy McBride
  
Who knows: eyes may be watching us
from all sides. Ah, only stumbling toward you
am I no longer on display. Growing into you,
I am forever set invisibly
in the darkening shelter of your heart.

Rilke, The Shelter of Your Heart,   Uncollected Poems
          
i.

Tal Vez - Maybe

Perhaps, you thought
As you lay in the dark
Encased in white plaster

You could make a beacon
Of your new body
Your iridescent shell
Could summon

An angel from the shadows
Someone prescient
Well apprised of the ordeal

It was to have been swaddled
In a blanket that turned to stone.

It is true.
You lay in the dark all in white
A bride of silence
Invisible, vestal, pure as flame
On the altar of the bed.

Voices were far away
As if the family
Had gone on 
The butter knives of their paddles
Slicing mile on mile
Down the green Rio Grande.
  
Ii
 Little Adobe

Little house you claimed my heart
With your peeling blue window frames
How you were cupped in the density
Of the autumn cottonwood trees
On Guadalupe Road.

The red hollyhocks sang of morning
The meadow larks sang back.
I was safe there
In my darkened room
Branches whispering against the glass
Comforting and half-muted voices.

This was before the Dark Time
When she was taken away
And I didn’t know
What to do with myself

Except with my small hands
To dust the stopped antique clock
With my toy broom
To sweep and sweep
The cold flagstone of the patio.

 Iii

The Unnamed

Everywhere
Are children in a plight
No one sees.
They hunger or they pine
With great eyes
From a corner
In a country so far away
We don’t know its name. 

Let us be invisible with them.
Let us join them in their meaning
Nothing to humanity
Even to those who come upon them
Too late, the wounds of their open mouths.



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copyright Jenne' R. Andrews
all rights reserved  jenneandrews2010@gmail.com 

Thursday, July 28, 2011

New Poem for Friday Poetry Fest

 Draft written for Friday Poetry Fest-- join us. xxxj 



Poplars in July

I do not know where either of us can turn
Just at first, waking from the sleep of each other.
I do not know how we can bear
The river struck by the gold plummet of the moon,
Or many trees shaken together in the darkness. 

Leave-taking, Louise Bogan


Tell me how the silver poplars
Edged their way in year on year
First along the lip of the creek
Then surrounding the pens
We built for the golden dogs

Sure of foot and deep of root
They planted themselves
And sweep the hours
Dawn to dusk—they recall
The calumnies of the old farmers
Who drove broken plows
Into the creek and left them there

Who it was that shot the beaver
With an arrow through the heart
And dared to be glad of it.

Poplars have I fed you
With the bodies of the gilded dogs
The champion to be and his get
The puppies too small to thrive

The moon has wept over you—
Its amber tears harden
On the roof’s edge
The mutinous young owls
Lift from your branches

One day I will not see you
I will be tucked away
Into the life of the threadbare

The sky drinks your chlorophyll
So that it can stay strong
For we who cling to the earth
We whose gravity pulls like a fever
At summer’s verdant heart.



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copyright Jenne' R. Andrews jenneandrews2010@gmail.com 

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.






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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.



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Thursday, June 23, 2011

A Pensive Poem for Thursday: Aftermath....


Blake, self-illustrated, the archives. 

Aftermath

I can accompany your memories
because I feel them. But on which strings
can I pluck for you the dark groans of your lust?

Rilke, New Poems

I know the rose of the body, how it quivers
When the bee is near.

I know its spent folding into itself
In the milky stream of the moonlight.

Have we not lived a ripe, briny season
Of unfurling permissions

But we tire, we begin to like songs
Of  regret.

Then the body prepares itself
For something else:  autumn

The banking of the fires.
Even if someone comes to the door

With a bouquet of innuendos
We stop the rose-pulse

In a lair of shadows
With the loquacious doves of our hands.







This draft was inspired by the quote from Rilke up today at the wondrous blog A Year with Rilke.

copyright Jenne' R. Andrews 2011 

Monday, June 20, 2011

Post Father's Day, A Poem - Transgression.










Transgression


Ours was an illicit love
All we had or knew together
Driving across Arizona
In simmering heat;

I had the Atlas open on my small lap
Where we were, a dot
Our destination off the map.

In the frigid cabin air
Mother/wife away
In the state loony bin

I didn’t want you to cry.
I crept to you
Held you in my arms
Your haggard scotch breath
Against my shoulder.

Your hands wandered out of fatherhood.
I called to you from a nightmare
I knew, as I changed,
Curved, bled

How very wrong to crave you
For my own.


But a father is a father still
no matter his sins.


Post-mortem, I sifted your ashes 
through my fingers
At night, the house emptied
I put on your pajamas 
A woman and a child.









xx

copyright Jenne' R. Andrews 2011

Monday, May 23, 2011

Playful Poem for Monday and Magpie Tales....

Baroque Oil-- Banquet with Lute -- Nicholas Tournier....


Written for Magpie Tales Photo Prompt-- ala the amazing Ms. Tess Kincaid-- merci et voila....

D’Artagnan’s Tryst

D’Artagnan approached me in the garden; he kissed my white neck.
He said his horse was tired; I led the stallion to a manger-full
Of the best rye on the farm.

He followed me to the room beneath the eaves, unbinding
My hair.  Mon pere was asleep in the next room and in the arms
Of my musketeer I smothered my cries, whispering
Quel’arme f à double trenchant -  O double-edged sword!

Claude of the hunting party brought in partridge and fresh-picked pears;
I made a coq au vin and we laughed.  Night was slow to crest in the window
And my heart pounded beneath my bodice, watching my lover tear the meat
Apart with his white teeth.

Sweet revelry, and “Endless Pleasure” strummed on the lute—we drank and rose to dance in the dawn.

D’Artagnan’s horse rested, he caressed me once more with his brown eyes,
Vaulted into the saddle—“J’reviens,” he had written on a scrap of parchment
That I tucked into my bodice, turning away to let the sunrise pink of my face
Fade, the heartache crest, telling not one soul-- 

Et maintenant, je ne peux pas croire….

(And now I can’t believe it…)


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copyright Jenne' R. Andrews  2011

Sunday, February 13, 2011

Midnight Valentine...for Jingle Potluck

http://jinglepoetry.blogspot.com/


Torch Song  2011

(written to  "Brussels in the Rain"- Paquito d' Rivera)

We play it your way
we stand outside the embrace
of  riffs of sultry midnight jazz
that make me want and want and want
To reinstate our old assent to hunger
the risks we took to take each other
wouldn't it be something
to be there in Brussels
in the midnight rain
together

The clock wound all the way back
we would stroll the cobbled labyrinth
I once explored, courtyards unfolding into others
and the shops of chocolatiers
and hotels with shutters and flickers
of the shadows of lovers, the candlelit intimations
of late night truth or dare

There would be the allure
of the gas lights and one another
the aching nearness of our mouths
the sheen and wild rose scent of my hair
my highways and overpasses remembered
by your strong hands with their long
discerning fingers

The old tenderness would flare
and move us to dance
young again new again
sound of mind and limb

Inflamed
By our too long endured desire--
too late to quench such prescient fever
or not, with staggered breath
hold on tight and deliver

What book on the table?
the one we began to write together
what nectar would we share
every kiss a bite of honeyed wild pears

We would want for nothing
wrapped in velvet jazz
the rain spent and pooling in the fountain
you, me, in renewed surrender

Reprinting all of history on the skin,
building an empire of recollection
for foul weather or fair,
in Brussels in the midnight rain.



xx

(written to the piece "Brussels in the Rain"- Paquito d' Rivera--working with assonance short e/ah-- but in the main, consonance: over 70 r's in this poem...whoa...)

copyright Jenne' R.Andrews 2011
All Rights Deserved....