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A Mocking Bird Sings of Transformation
“Lovely night, exquisite night...”
Tales of Hoffman.
Could I not have been a water lily
Cradled by the graceful arpeggios of the stream:
Acquiescent to my destiny
I would so rather be one of those
In Monet’s painting
Uncomplicated, perennially whole in quietude,
Pollinating without discernible passion,
Casting off spores into April’s thawing water
Than what and who I appear to be;
Before dawn, human and worn,
Dreaming, of the equivocal:
Of those I would hold, my serial loves, dispersed
To farther seasons.
In deeper sleep I ride the downdraft of predation
Or sleep, head under my wing
Unto death it seems, acclimated
To the creviced rock, sparse nest,
Inner song of mourning.
Meadowlarks carol: soft rains come.
A white owl intones,
In moon-cast trees.
Jenne’ Andrews
Winter 07
Orfea has long been asleep and now bestirs herself... She sees dawn break over the tree of life, knowing that time waits for no woman-- that Art must be rescued from the cradle and delivered into the light of day....
Please scroll down the entire length of each page of my site. Enjoy my work and items of interest here and contact me if you like at palabrasymas@hotmail.com . Copywriting portfolio parked at http://www.palabrasymas.bravehost.com .
Jenne’Rodey Andrews, Writer-- Lipsticked Orfea...
Status: Producing, self-publishing online-- here. Occasionally submitting polished work to journals & e-zines. Will link to "forthcoming" here.
Curriculum Vita
Collections
The Dark Animal of
In Pursuit of the Family
Quarterlies
Seneca Review,
Anthologies
Heartland II, Minnesota Poets Vols. I and II., Wingbone, An Anthology of
Essays:
Colorado Review, Preview (Minnesota Public Radio Magazine), Twin Falls Times-News (memoir), Choice Magazine, Fort Collins.
Other Writing
Web copy, miscellaneous prose.
Honors:
National Endowment for the Arts Fellowship in Literature/Poetry 1974
Finalist, The Bush Foundation Fellowship 1978
Appointment: Fulltime Poet in Residence,
M.A. English/Creative Writing 1985
All Coursework/Exams for the M.F.A.
Teaching
St. Paul Schools 1974-78
Interests: As fourth generation native New Mexican, the West, the classical composers, choral liturgical music, the bel canto soprano canon. During lit career hiatus, sporting dogs (fifteen years’ producing bigger and better Golden Retrievers), disability and housing advocacy. Bilingual, Spanish.
I know it is spring here because the cries in the grass
penetrate my nightmares, my nightsweats;
I rise then, and navigate the wrought iron stairs with my healing leg,
go out on the spare walker, calling the kitten. Overhead, a red hawk.
I call and it beelines toward me, tiny, eyes crusted shut, starving
a voice as big as the world.
I scoop it up, yellow mote, carry it in my teeth
like a madwoman, stumping back to the house
There are still more voices under the house;
the puppies wake and cry for their formula.
Sweat runs down my back; my breasts I have forgotten
to fetter for the day. It is the eve
of my sixtieth year.
I so want to swaddle that which makes no deamnds,
the dolls I paint in the morninig,
their serene faces catching the light.
I feel erosion in my bones,
one molar rots away;
I am at the stove, whisking egg yolks into goat's milk,
Thinking of my wedding photo, my dark curly hair
the blush in my cheeks,
the trains leaving town without me.
Jenne' Andrews
June 3, 2008
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