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Bocca, Voce, Delirio—Mouth, Voice, Delirium: Poems of Italia and Amore by Jenne’ Andrews

5 out of 5 based on 2 customer ratings
(2 customer reviews)

$14.99

Jenne’ Andrews is a poet whose beautifully crafted work has garnered acclaim down the decades.

 

Every poem in this sampling of “Italiana” arising from the poet’s summer in Calabria in 1973, sings in dazzlingly beautiful language coupled with an emotional intensity that never obscures or overstates her meaning.

 

Of her 2015 Finishing Line collection:  “It’s wonderful to have a collection of yours again.”

–Robert Bly

 

Another kudo:  “You are an inspiration to me, Jenne’ ”

 –MichaelSimms, from Autumn House founder and current publisher of the online journal Vox Populi.

 

Such comments become powerful sources of comfort and encouragement as we survive the daily Chernobyl of the Trump presidency.

Product Description

PREORDER PURCHASE SHIPS JULY 7, 2017

Bocca, Voce, Delirio—Mouth, Voice, Delirium: Poems of Italia and Amore

by Jenne’ Andrews

$14.99, paper

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2 reviews for Bocca, Voce, Delirio—Mouth, Voice, Delirium: Poems of Italia and Amore by Jenne’ Andrews

  1. 5 out of 5

    :

    A wonderful bilingual collection from the very accomplished Jenne’ R. Andrews–this collection had its genesis from a summer the poet spent in southern Italy in 1973. Her poems are rich in exquisite imagery wrought from the Costa Viola on the Tyrrhenian Sea–the area also inspired Homer to write the Odyssey! Visit the book’s blog to read a poem from the collection, at http://boccavocedelirio.blogspot.com . Andrews is fluent in Italian and the poems have been rendered in Italian by Prof. Lorenzo Luciani, with the dazzling Tuscan poet Rosalba di Vona. Googling Ms. Andrews produces many additional avenues to her work.

  2. 5 out of 5

    :

    A sample and favorite from the collection, first published in the exclusive and beautiful Vox Populi —
    The Bread of Telling

    Here is the time for telling. Here is its home.
    …Old definitions, which once
    set limits to our living,
    break apart like dried crusts.

    Rilke, 9th Duino Elegy

    In a dream I stand on the hungry lip of the tide,
    the Costa Viola where Homer knelt open-mouthed

    at the swordfish arcing in splendor. There is a web
    like a skein of almond milk over the air, a resignation

    in the sea cliff village Scylla, so that it is a place
    of mourning women, children clothed in dust

    carrying wine-globes up stone steps from the market.
    For we now know what cargo lies beneath

    the rumpled Messina Strait, the submerged writs
    of odyssey and return of a people robbed

    of contentment: how is it that an all-mothering sea
    should become a repository for loss and death?

    I was innocent of all of this, the claims ‘Ndrangheta
    dons had upon exquisite Calabria;

    we walked there together even up to San Luca
    to pick wild roses; you took me out in a small blue

    boat and we breasted the swells under the ruthless
    sun; your mouth safely took my terrors from me,

    that I had braved the journey by second-class car
    through sweltering tunnels. You bade me cast

    continued
    my bread upon the waters with you, let go my
    sorrows and I did: the scavenging gulls

    took them off, crying and victorious, to Palermo.
    I could feel the darkness on the horizon and yet

    how dazzling the beach, how remarkable, Mozart
    on the bistro jukebox, the Cinzano burn

    in my throat, the ecstatic ache between my legs.
    Years later, at the twilight hour, I cannot stop

    my heart from returning there, imagining that you
    are not among the damned, that I find you an old

    and virile gardener, your face igniting when you
    see me. What would become of us, would we shed

    our years in the moon-spell of the gilded harbor,
    would your hands remember what I taught you,

    mariner, silver-haired vagabond—who doesn’t
    dream of such things: yet in such a reverie

    the boats drag the port waters, fishermen singing
    in exultation at the catch, hauling in the great

    stopped clocks from the fallen empire of love,
    lining the beach with their mahogany bodies.

    .
    Il Pane di Raccontare

    Questo è il tempo di raccontare. Questa è la sua casa.
    … Vecchie definizioni, che una volta
    segnavano i limiti del nostro vivere,
    si rompono come croste secche.

    Rilke, Nona Elegia Duino

    In un sogno mi trovo sull’affamata cresta della marea.
    La Costa Viola dove Omero s’inginocchio a bocca aperta

    davanti al pesce spada splendidamente arcuato.
    C’è una rete come una matassa di latte di mandorla nell’aria,

    una rassegnazione nella scogliera marina del villaggio
    di Scilla, che ne fa un luogodi donne addolorate,

    di ragazzi coperti di polvereche dal mercato portano
    damigiane di vino risalendo scalinate in pietra;

    ora sappiamo che peso c’è sottoil tortuoso Stretto di Messina,
    sommersi decretidi un’odissea e il ritorno di gente derubata

    della felicità: come può un generoso mare diventare
    un deposito di perdita e morte?

    Ero inconsapevole di tutto, le richieste che i Don
    della ’ Ndrangheta avevano sulla squisita Calabria;

    camminammo insieme fino a San Luca per cogliere
    rose di macchia; mi portasti al largo su una barchetta blu,

    le onde lambivano i nostri petti sotto un sole
    spietato; dolcemente la tua bocca mi portò via il terrore,

    avevo coraggiosamente intrapreso il viaggio in un vagone
    di seconda classe attraverso soffocanti tunnel.

    Mi offristi di lanciare con te il pane sulle ondedi
    abbandonare i miei dolori e lo feci: se li portarono via

    .
    .
    i gabbiani con striduli di vittoria a Palermo.
    All’orizzonte vedevo oscurità, ma era abbagliante

    la spiaggia e gradevole Mozart dal jukebox del caffè,
    il Cinzano mi bruciava la gola, l’estasi tra le mie gambe.

    Anni dopo, nell’ora del tramonto, non potevo
    Trattenere il mio cuore e il desiderio di tornarci,

    tra immaginando che non sei tra i dannati
    e che ti troverò vecchio giardiniere virile, con il viso

    che s’illumina alla mia vista. Cosa sarà di noi?
    Lasceremo scorrere i nostri anni sotto l’incantesimo

    della luna del porto dorato–Ricorderanno
    le tue mani il mio insegnamento?

    Marinaio, vagabondo dai capelli argentati – che non
    sogna certe cose: ma in questo sogno le barche resistono

    alle acque del porto, i pescatori cantano esultanti
    per la retata, trasportando nella grande rete

    i grandi orologi fermi dal decaduto impero dell’amore,
    rivestendo la spiaggia con i loro corpi abbronzati.

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