Rob McLennan Poems

 

 

 

Self-portrait, with infant,

 

1.
 

You say lever. I incline. The front step
contains multitudes.
 
Water on the frozen lake.
 
Upside-down, a re-imagined landscape.
Wonders, the difference.
 
 
2.
 
Rosebush, such pitiable self. Might mend,
might actually pick up, once
 
a foot touched down.
 
Thorns, with predictable outcome. Curled forks
damp among the fiddleheads.
 
   
3.
 
A terrible, lifting burden. Today, your name
translates to wheat, sundog
 
and homesick. You speak it, spin
held breath.
 
To translate yellow, the lowest
part of leaf.

 

 

 

**

 

 

Born in Ottawa, Canada’s glorious capital city, rob mclennan currently lives in Ottawa. The author of more than twenty trade books of poetry, fiction and non-fiction, his most recent titles are the poetry collections Songs for little sleep, (Obvious Epiphanies,2012), grief notes: (BlazeVOX [books], 2012), A (short) history of l. (BuschekBooks, 2011), Glengarry (Talonbooks, 2011) and kate street (Moira, 2011), and a second novel, missing persons (2009). An editor and publisher, he runs above/ground press, Chaudiere Books (with Jennifer Mulligan), The Garneau Review, seventeen seconds: a journal of poetry and poetics and the Ottawa poetry pdf annual ottawater. He spent the 2007-8 academic year in Edmonton as writer-in-residence at the University of Alberta, and regularly posts reviews, essays, interviews and other notices at robmclennan.blogspot.com

 

 

 

 

 

Archived at http://lit.konundrum.com/poetry/mclennanr_poems.php

 

 

 

 

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