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

Sunday, October 30, 2011

New Poem: Insurrection, for Magpie Tales Photo Challenge

 Note:  My ongoing spate of insomnia has spawned a flurry of new poems, hopefully with not as many mixed metaphors as this statement.  Therefore, new work has been posted going back through last week;  in other words, please do scroll down.

The following draft is posted for Tess Kincaid's prompt on this day at Magpie Tales. xxxj

Photo, Tess Kincaid

Insurrection

The experience and inclination and affection we put into familiar things cannot be replaced. We are perhaps the last who still will have known such things. On us is the responsibility not only to remember them, but to know their value.

Rilke, Letters  

I made my way through the old house
Resurrecting its troves, from its cellar
A roll top desk, in the corner Mason jars
With sky in them and in the alcove
beneath the sheen of cobwebs, an old Royal
Its alphabet teeth chipped and crooked.

These things I brought into the daylight
And then into the living room
Where the sun poured in and the old wood
Took pints of lemon oil;

Out in the shop the old couple
Squatting there for little rent
Had filled barrels with things that one day
Might be useful and in one of these
A ream of thick, soft white paper--

How it terrified me to find
Those snowy fields waiting for my
Tracks over them, snowshoeing my way
Up toward the timberline of reconnaissance.
I packed the sheets away beneath the desk

And at night they escaped and flew
Through the dim air of the quiet house
Like demanding, impertinent snowy owls
Until as in today, twenty years later,
I caught them and stroked their feathers
Like a mad composer corralling grace notes
And sostenutti and legato, legato.

You will have to let me come to you
I said, locking them in the fragrant
Drawer, putting one sheet
In the typewriter,
My hands upon its assembling
Resistance fighters,
The insurrectionist keys.


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copyright Jenne' R. Andrews 2011
All rights reserved.

Saturday, July 16, 2011

New Poem for Saturday - Star-Making


The Arena di Verona at Twilight


Star-Making

Who shows a child his true world?
Who sets him among the stars, and places
in his hand the true measure of space?
Death can do this, the hugeness of death,
even before life has begun—
to hold it gently and feel no resentment,
that is enough.

From the Fourth Duino Elegy
Rilke

So it was that the child saw
The place for herself left by one
No longer present

The absences between and among stars
The far-flung suns
Moon in her sanctuary.

Lesson the first then
Is of the power of absence:

Intent, in her crib
She listens.
Murmurs, down the long hallway
M – Mere. Mother.  First
Mnemonic.

And if the mother doesn’t come
The unfilled space intensifies
To oxygen.

The child’s first question:
Am I alone,
Was I born to be alone.

A child perceives the loneliness
Of the stars, blankly glittering on.
She would comfort the stars
Even the sun

Her hair catching fire
Body’s tallow melting
Little life dying back.

This is how we make a star
Someone wanders out, too far
No one to hold her
So that she drifts off,
To the vast fields of the heavens

A star faintly cries out
Behold, your missing child.

This, we perceive
As half-failed light,
a lucent phenomena
of little use to the world.





Copyright Jenne' R. Andrews 2011   all rights reserved.

Tuesday, July 5, 2011

Poem for Magpie Tales Monday

For Magpie Tales week of July 4 


Wheatfield with Rising Sun-- Van Gogh



Detante

Such comfort in the July fields
Garrisons of alfalfa down and curing
So that the cut stem perfumes
the heat-weary night

And to know that the mares and foals
Feast and dream 
in their stanchions of hip-high emerald grass

We row out, into sleep
The furrows and the yield
The light and dark now come calling

Cicada lullabye
Luna nueva y inculpable

Nascent, innocent moon
Annulling our carrion fears. 


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copyright Jenne' R. Andrews
2011

Tuesday, June 21, 2011

For Magpie Tales and One Shot Wednesday: Civil War Summer




(thanks to Tess Kincaid for the 1.99 find/photo prompt; join in the meme at Magpie Tales.  One Shot Wednesday link widget goes up at 12 midnight EST on Tuesdays)

Civil War Summer

She reads in the porch swing in her white
Sun-dried dimity dress.
She is companioned by live oaks
Grasping at the sky.
She is reading Dickinson on death.
She is reading Emerson
On transcendence.

A boy next door
Has the new Eastman camera
Asks to photograph her;
She assents.

We cannot see
How a short-time later
She ascends worn oak stairs
To a corner under the eaves
To a desk, an ink pot
A pen with a worn nib
When she is waylaid by a thin cry
From another room.

In the attic of the old Charleston house
A century too late
To meet a belle
Given to poetry
A note:

No news from the Front today.
No news from Jack.
Mother has taken to her bed
Over the War. 

And the photo,
A half-blown rose on summer’s vine
Caught in yellowed light

Her ripe, dimpled mouth
One eye looking out
More invincibly than the other.

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copyright Jenne' R. Andrews 2011

Sunday, January 30, 2011

Posted for One Shoot Sunday



Photo-- Iquanyin, via One Stop.



Time-traveler

Where I stumbled you see not prints
But raised humps of sand
I had tried to kick the wind

I had tried to swim beneath the waves
And then I rocked in the sky’s arms

I drank a cup of darkness
Resting in the sun

The moon rose; the earth turned
I yearned on

Where I faltered you see not gulls
but doves
I had tried to marry time

I had tried to walk the heather
without shoes 
And then I sang 

I ate a crust of bread
The tide came in, the sea
Wept its salty accolade.

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Sunday's photo challenge, One Stop Poetry.  

Saturday, January 22, 2011

Poems for Saturday....







The Literary Nature of the Lioness

I see the lioness bereft of young
Mothering a new gazelle

I see that one raised by men
returned to her habitat
Go running to them,
Knocking them down in joy

I see the great Hemingway lion 
Macomber gut-shot
Crawling toward the maw of Wilson’s rifle
And then I despise my own kind

I see the lion-head death mask
On the wall of a hunting lodge
Hung there by someone
Who thinks he is brave

I see the she-lion fishing 
up to her shoulders
In the savannah stream
I see twelve lions
Bring down an elephant
To stay alive

I see the lions of time
Guarding humanity
When they range and hunger
Desire and long
Pace and cry

We say how fierce
And unbelievable
When there is some tenderness
in us that belongs
to the lioness.

  
ii

Of the lioness
I know little
Only that to the very end

She mouths her cubs to safety
Hiding them in the cave
She drags in a rotting carcass
They tear at it.

She lies down
Leaching blood from an old wound

Her cubs cry in the grass
The hyenas hear them
She lifts her head
They retreat and wait
And return

The pride watches
From far away

As we watch our own
Out on the Sudan
Flailing in the sun
Without bread or water

Shrinking up around their own bones
On time’s burning tether.





Second Poem for Today  




Unbound

By the time you realize you have made numerous
Wrong turns, the moon has disappeared
Behind the hills.  You are alone then at a dead end
In the cooling truck.

You had been dreaming along, following
What appeared to be a road, old sayonaras
Unwinding in your mind
Ignoring the warnings of sliding rock

There used to be a ghost town
Here, you murmur to yourself
Looking out to the edge,
The rim of the canyon

Broomstick trees rustle
In the cemetery
Light from a weak moon
Sifts down on the ruins
Where you played as a child.
There were wild horses there
Only you could see.
There were magnanimous uncles
Thinning, paling
To scarecrows

You take the wing suit
Out of the car and put it on.
You step out to the rim.
You focus, squaring your shoulders
As the others did
You put your feet
In their footprints.

You turn and fall back
Into the long, lavender stillness—
No seraphim appears
To catch or welcome you;
The rushing air
Closes your eyes
Appropriates your breath.

Sunday, January 16, 2011

For One Shoot Sunday






Challenge:  photo of infant w/ dog tags, Katherine Forbes, at One Stop Poetry.  

 
Wake Not Our Dream


"Guten Abend, gute Nacht, Von Englein bewacht
Die zeigen im Traum, dir Christkindleins Baum
Schlaf nun selig und suess, Schau im Traum's Paradies
Schlaf nun selig und suess, Schau im Traum's Paradies"*

Lullabye,  Johannes Brahms


Wake not my dream
my dream in its infancy
of return from war
the last dream a man has
with his last breath
medics loading him with morphine
making the sign of the cross
on bloody coats
pulling out the IV's

It is every warriors' dream
of homecoming, flesh intact
but for the heart with its bruises
from the burial of fallen friends
sequestering
the photographs of their wives
and sons
and daughters

ii

We often save nothing
but memorabilia; we often
must bury chaff
we imagine to have once been human.

But what of the rage
that destroys all
and the eyes of All
that wait upon thee?

In the Taliban's cave
men murmur around a fire
they pray at dusk
they walkie talkie to their own
on the far ridge
is my family all right
did you see that drone

A dark haired young father
comes weeping from a bunker
carrying a child.
A wife in a burkah keens
on a grave of stones


iii

I deployed in the night:
In the name of victory
In defense of what I believed
a good cause
I killed a Muslim fighter
a father and a husband
with my bare hands

Then I knew
Gethsemane.
I was one of the despised
I was called no name GI
and spat upon
in the POW camp

In a bright red flash
from an RPG
in the carooming of a humvee
into a ravine
I fell.

iv

Now someone retrieves
my daughter's picture
My dog tags
from the chaff
where I was.

The tags were sent home
as was I, in my cold
flag-draped bed.

I lie in that bed
in the hanger
that warrior, son and father
I had become
dissipating like fog--
where there was a man
a bone cage with a heart

All around me the weeping
of weary angels.
My effects and I are processed
on the assembly line of the dead


iv

Someone prays here.
The Lord Is My Shepherd--
He maketh me
To lie down in green pastures.

What has come to pass
may not be undone
by human hands
and I am not stilled
or comforted.

Weep not for me
sing not one kyrie
at a high mass
never extol my deeds

And wake not her dream.
speak well of me
to her,
The half-orphaned angel
who sleeps

Yea though I walk
through the valley of the shadow
of my sins and indiscretions
I loved her unto the last--
And this is everyone's war.



*Lullaby and good night,
Thy mother's delight,
Bright angels beside
My darling abide.
They will guard thee at rest,
Thou shalt wake on my breas
t.



copyright Jenne' R. Andrews
January 16,2011