1.
In
the details, bedeviled. Am I half-way finished, or begun? Too soon,
by
half. A ladybird, floats. My bare hand. Homestead,
sunsets.
If I did complain. Characters in snow and shadow,
ghosts
of every childhood
that
blossomed: my father’s, my sister’s, mine. Familiar sounds
so
simple, they amplify. Echo.
2.
Since
the beginning, when I found
my
mouth, a mumble, let alone
a
voice.
3.
From
almost any angle. Busted a toe, and then a second.
These
inaugural fractures, after nearly five unbroken decades
of
carefree indifference. Almost every day,
I
stood. I stood up. Imagination, bristles. I
remember,
like it was. Margins, where
I
lay this ancient peak.
4.
Memories
of
a distant, faded thing.
For poems for my fiftieth birthdayby rob mclennanon the eve of his fiftieth, March 14, 2020above/ground press broadside #349
Born
in Ottawa, Canada’s glorious capital city, rob mclennan currently lives
in Ottawa, where he is home full-time with the two wee girls he shares with
Christine McNair. The author of more than thirty trade books of poetry, fiction
and non-fiction, his most recent poetry titles include A halt, which is empty (Mansfield Press, 2019) and Life sentence, (Spuyten Duyvil, 2019).
An editor and publisher, he runs above/ground press, Touch the Donkey (touchthedonkey.blogspot.com)
and the newly-launched periodicities: a journal of poetry and poetics (periodicityjournal.blogspot.com).
He is “Interviews Editor” at Queen Mob’s
Teahouse, editor of my (small press)
writing day, and an editor/managing editor of many gendered mothers. He regularly posts reviews, essays,
interviews and other notices at robmclennan.blogspot.com
