Rob Mclennan and Stephan Brockwell are coming this Friday! 7:30pm in the
Faculty Lounge (Room 315 in Griffith) -- another Creative Writing event, and Rob is bringing
chapbooks to hand out as well as copies of his books to buy, both novels
and poetry. More than a little lagniappe from Ottawa awaits you all.
Here are poems from each writer to whet your appetites.
neck
by rob mclennan
stills into an inconvenient nightmare.
construction comes in jars. the only way to leave this place is to
deliberately lift.
everything is gentrified. the peel of a taste of skin over blue sky blue
is a layer of dust. the skin that would otherwise be.
I am hopelessly incomplete; I am
hopeless and this. green car passes,
shakes; green car is the key to a pardon.
today I am human;thrum on its neck.
Stephen Harper's Shoes
by Stephan Brockwell
Long days holding up the country,
short nights breathing fresh air.
Each morning, a minion polishes away
a day's accumulated scuffs
with matt black petroleum paste.
My burnished upper reflects the blurred image of the face above but does
not shine.
My heel grinds even the iridescent
beetle, silent, powerless, beautiful,
Into the Langevin asphalt. My steel
shank would never pass security
if the face did not control it personally.
The feet have no particular smell,
like winter air or snow. I complain
of the unguents, salves and balms, reeking of sulphur that, despite all
evidence to the contrary, will not relieve the cracked and callused heels.
Faculty Lounge (Room 315 in Griffith) -- another Creative Writing event, and Rob is bringing
chapbooks to hand out as well as copies of his books to buy, both novels
and poetry. More than a little lagniappe from Ottawa awaits you all.
Here are poems from each writer to whet your appetites.
neck
by rob mclennan
stills into an inconvenient nightmare.
construction comes in jars. the only way to leave this place is to
deliberately lift.
everything is gentrified. the peel of a taste of skin over blue sky blue
is a layer of dust. the skin that would otherwise be.
I am hopelessly incomplete; I am
hopeless and this. green car passes,
shakes; green car is the key to a pardon.
today I am human;thrum on its neck.
Stephen Harper's Shoes
by Stephan Brockwell
Long days holding up the country,
short nights breathing fresh air.
Each morning, a minion polishes away
a day's accumulated scuffs
with matt black petroleum paste.
My burnished upper reflects the blurred image of the face above but does
not shine.
My heel grinds even the iridescent
beetle, silent, powerless, beautiful,
Into the Langevin asphalt. My steel
shank would never pass security
if the face did not control it personally.
The feet have no particular smell,
like winter air or snow. I complain
of the unguents, salves and balms, reeking of sulphur that, despite all
evidence to the contrary, will not relieve the cracked and callused heels.
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