Rob McLennan Poems




Self-portrait, with infant,



You say lever. I incline. The front step
contains multitudes.
Water on the frozen lake.
Upside-down, a re-imagined landscape.
Wonders, the difference.
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.
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






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