Two poems by rob mclennan

lake, serious

a ship to shore; constructed
out a tin man, last seen reading

an elementary curve

as you would have it; sleep
a starry tide,

four limbs & breath,

who lives, or lives
an island, candle wash

of moving & non-moving parts


of paradise; shape is just
a window, passing

             oath of watching form

of husbands, wives
an anchor tourniquet, suckled

in a wakeful state,
the glassy sand

             I’m walking down
             your hall, arm of

             this borrowed shirt

the sky invented; hours red
& orange-pink

& smoky-black; this husky voice,

lake, impression

curled, an underside; these swans,
both real & plastic

overlapping trees for miles

             fountain, would you; island,
             island, don’t look up

sometimes you’re the sandbar
& some, the water’s edge

green image, river, ahead
a span of richness

             overgrown, at once
             each possible sound

skinny legs & spread,
he planned for eons


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 A (short) history of l. (BuschekBooks, 2011), grief notes: (BlazeVOX [books], 2011), Glengarry (Talonbooks, 2011), kate street (Moira, 2011) and 52 flowers (or, a perth edge) (Obvious Epiphanies, 2010), 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

Comments are closed.

Post Navigation