rob mclennan

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 titles include On Beauty: stories (University of Alberta Press, 2024), the poetry collection World’s End, (ARP Books, 2023), a suite of pandemic essays, essays in the face of uncertainties (Mansfield Press, 2022) and the anthology groundworks: the best of the third decade of above/ground press 2013-2023 (Invisible Publishing, 2023). The current Artistic Director of VERSeFest: Ottawa’s International Poetry Festival, 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 ; https://bsky.app/profile/robmclennan.bsky.social

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Reading Kaveh Akbar’s Pilgrim Bell by our new inflatable pool

1.

This lyric footnote                   to our two wee girls. Across

suburban stillness, a second

pandemic summer. Inflate, this choral beast. To lifeguard,

catch their chaos: now

they’ve gathered swimsuits, sunscreen, neon sun hats; towels

discarded, strewn across the lawn. The garden hose

enables water levels, slow. The fallow ether,

heat. Compels.

Kaveh Akbar: God’s word is a melody,

and melody requires repetition.

2.

I largely believe in neither God nor absolutes. My personal blend

of atheist, and agnostic. I am not certain

what I don’t believe. Tommy Pico: Nations

are always outlived by their cities. So too

of deities, to faithful; a routine                         erosion

of both memory

and the body. Today, the children

laugh at splashing, tumbles. Thick, this compilation: blue

of summer sky. The air

is static            , stock-still.

3.

The difficulty               of solitude. Ongoing months

of household isolation. Either child, upset at any suggestion

of separation. An outdoor day-camp. Aoife

cries at drop-off, every morning

for the full week.                     Our daughters

are home, are always home. And we, too.

As quick                                  as a half-thought. A subtweet

takes time. Kaveh Akbar: God’s word

is a melody, and melody           requires repetition.

4.

The last time I saw my father he was dead. I expect, for him,

that little has changed. His youngest grandchildren

apply wet, dirty footprints

across our kitchen floor, en route

to main floor bathroom. I have to go, they yell. The digital display

on my cellphone sluggish,

in comparison. A second pair of towels replace

what they’ve already abandoned.

5.

Polyvinyl chloride: inflatable stripes of white and deep blue,

held to ground, our personal echo

of the ozone ceiling. It swells

such temperate, watery mass. I turn the page, and then

another. The shade of absolute integrity,

an afternoon of poems. A sweltering of what

the week brings.                       Uncomfortable

with otherwise allowing our ladies solo

in this foot or so

of grassy, leafy soup.

6.

The children break for snacks. Sun hats: discarded splash

of neon texture

on uneven green. In two week’s time,

we commit my father’s ashes. There,

just upon my mother. Such a long death, sixteen months

of mourning, incomplete; since that first dawn

he wouldn’t wake. Kaveh Akbar: God’s word

is a melody,

and melody requires repetition.

7.

As writing prompt, Sawako Nakayasu says to select

an object or concept. Write a poem. Write another. Write poems

in this manner

for as long as you can. The children two days prodding

for the pool and ninety minutes filling it, less

than an hour

before back in the house.

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