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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 poetry one shoot sunday. Show all posts
Showing posts with label jenne andrews poetry one shoot sunday. Show all posts

Sunday, June 19, 2011

For One Shoot Sunday



See Chris Galford's photos of graffiti posted for One Stop Poetry's One Shoot Sunday here.  


Graffiti
  
The train passes car on car
Into the blue smoke of the twilight
In the engine-off reverie
We check our voicemails, our tweets

Our watches, our darkening moles
Our lab reports.
It’s not good to have to wait;
When we wait, we feel,
We conjecture, we obsess.

But how sweet to be stopped
As we all wish to be stopped at last
By something beyond our control
The arrival and departure of the trains

Their silver shivering past the eye
Their clockwork thunder. 


The train slows in the deepening dusk
On one car stenciled
By a profaning hand
“We’re all mad!”

The last car then
And we all head
Out of the gauntlet
Gunning ourselves through
Away from each other
Into the aromatic freedom
Of the summer fields.

cc


copyright Jenne' R. Andrews
all rights reserved


Sunday, April 10, 2011

Poem for Sunday: This Song We Know By Heart-- One Shoot Sunday





(imagining the girl in the photograph by Lauren Randolph  as a poetess...visit the meme One Stop Poetry/One Shoot Sunday.)


This Song We Know by Heart

All of us write the same poem over and over
especially when the wind finds its way to us
in cold derision, prowling around our legs like a cat

In heat, needy, incessant. As if you are safe here
in the window, looking out at time flowing by with its scrim
of wavering budding trees. Sunday and families curled up
suppressing their hatred for each other, pretending
to love the rump roast set on the table with
the glassware and the pewter.

I once threw my mother's prized Staffordshire minute man
down the stairs. What does that make me but a broken
daughter.  I once took my ice skates to the pond
and my father, drunk came looking for me, begging me
to come home, making promises but I sped away in my red
VW bug to the freeways lacerated

By wind from the eighteen wheelers passing me on the way
to South Dakota.  I am caution-prone now, so that even though
my truck is road-worthy I cannot bring myself to shatter away
from here back to some point of origin: where is it,  Chaco.
Corrales.  Ramsey Hill.

The voice of the arriviste drones on and on; yes, we write the same
poems again and again, sing a requiem for the blackbirds until
we know it by heart.  Someone gets a Guggenheim; someone else
hangs himself, not for one instant saved by literature

Although he had been declared a contemporary master. But the wind
dies down.  The stars come back out and the mystery
rewrites itself on the skies of the mind so that then the defended heart
breaks down.  We weep, and gather up our sheets of paper,
the credos we carry too close to the chest.

x
copyright Jenne' R. Andrews 2011

Sunday, March 27, 2011

Poem for One Shoot Sunday





Crush

I am the shy girl back in the stage shadows
merely one bareheaded
apple-breasted shepherdess in the chorus

And the town's golden boy, the mortician's son
the natural-born tenor takes center stage

As Lancelot.  I am not Guinevere
our head cheerleader transformed
to an engrailed Arthurian vision

But I should be. He sings to her
while she sits in green diaphanous lassitude

Pretending to eat a pear
He perjures himself,

Pledging to fall on his faux sword for her
at any hour.

I hear him say 
he'll bequeath the shield 

To her, when the curtain falls
And the set is broken down
on striking night.

He warbles on
and everyone applauds.
I seethe

And pray that a papier mache raven
flies down in Act II
and plucks out her eyes

Or better yet, pecks off her cherry
and gives it to a beggar.

One night, beggar myself I caught a ride home
from him in the family hearse-- something 
overcame me
and I bared my breast in the moonlight

And he turned me over his knee
a well-rehearsed budding patriarch
admonishing me with the flat of his hand.

Even then, I lay in my narrow bed 
a slip of moon trapped in the rose bush
at the window pane
Dreaming us together

I was galloping on the white filly
of my imagination

And he raced ahead of me
on his black warhorse
shedding his armor in the grove

Taking me as I thought
women were taken up
into the arms of their loves back then

In those bittersweet sleepless hours
that he had dared to spank me 
was the bad dream

In my reverie we were 
old hands at the joust
of carnal love

And then the dream turned
to an aqua scrim of light and water.


xxx
copyright Jenne' R. Andrews 2011
all rights reserved