James Andrews grew up in tiny Mt. Gilead, NC (pop.1200) and spent almost a lifetime in the theatre. He produced almost 300 shows, acted in over 100 and directed 80 more. He began writing poetry in his mid-teens and has passionately read and written it ever since. He lives in Fort Mill, South Carolina. more »
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James Andrews Poems
These are the things that press down upon the world. They are the semblances of rings around the moon. The howling dogs in barking circles
Down we drove, The rim of Philadelphia Hot motorcycle Burning in the truck.
Pittsboro Road (Mature)
Once we found a solace in our nakedness And wore our bright bare skins Like standards held above advancing armies
The light has traveled for all time And now its journey ended refracts and splinters in the atmosphere Then splits and hurls itself toward all we far flung tribes Draws us past our unwatched borders on the edges of the day
I know I've been here in this afternoon 4: 10 P.M. Like lubricated clockworks in a perpetual machine My life returns to this brown earth blue sky
A camera panning Reveals the wrecks of ships, The fleets of Japanese Twisted in oblivion.
Greensboro Street (Mature)
At last The yawning late night conversation ended. Silence surged and widened over us like sleep. Your roommates knew we wished them gone
From pots of glue and sheets of muslin, Bamboo ribs, I build a frame of wings And strap them to my arms and chest.
Mayan Cave, The Yucatan
The day had been hot. The buses on the main route Spinning out comet tails of dust,
The waltz begins And partners are exchanged The dancers float across the ballroom
Far off the glacier ice exhales. The world was so much warmer yesterday. Leaves blowing all around the town, Gusts scudding from the polar seas
Princess of Acadia
Waiting for the ferry I found a piece of Delft, or so I thought, Blue white and shining on the rock beach at St. John's, Mixed it in with unfamiliar coins of Canada
You sit alone like me Ice cream from Swenson's In your hand Siddhartha in your lap
I stop the car behind the church. Hear the fan, my ticking engine cooling Comforts, fills the alternate of silence.
Comments about James Andrews
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
These are the things that press down upon the world.
They are the semblances of rings around the moon.
The howling dogs in barking circles
Prowl the dim dark yards.
Crystals holding high upon the winter light,
Betray a stranger's footprints
Creeping low beneath our windowsills.
They are so light and small
In their approaching.
Strange and hushing deep.
They are the many travelers
Who brush against
Our yawning fresh faced houses.
After dreams hold out rescinded
Their footprints stay,
Embedded in the frost.