Sentinel Poetry (Online) #36 – November 2005

Online Magazine Monthly…since December 2002. ISSN 1479-425X




Rob Mclennan


blindness: seven poems for kate


        “I want to give everything to this burnt flower: I’ve nothing;

          I bury my face; set it in water.”

                    -- John Thompson, Stiltjack


        “Optometry begins with an I.”

                    -- Jason Christie



this is not an explanation, but

a small degree


when crossing the street, looks left, & then

not as left


would you mind if i revised

my statement, thing


it doesnt matter if you can ride

your bicycle


leans to one side, just like

her mother


after the optician, now

we follow






some light & some shapes, but

little more


on the darker side

of her


one half of her signature



not that it seems

to bother


more us

than her


both shaken

& stirred


but then her other, what since

long improved


the border she stops at

further abroad




where does she walk, favouring

one side


a distance that goes further

into detail


what she would have lost,

just yesterday


the rain erases snow

from her backyard


the sun on her forearm


a hard knock rings

her kitchen window


this is the sheetmusic

of her youth




forget her comments abt

peg-leg, or patch


my child


blind in one eye, & drunk

on chocolate


would she drive me around

when im eighty


her mother says, you wont

live that long


we pick

at last nights food


we look out

over long communion




looks good, in new blue glasses


unknown where the scratch came, fall

or something viral


all ahead me now, begins

to slowly fade


my age, by decreasing inch


where blood mixes thick

w/ saliva


what chance did she have, genetics

can be cruel


a stretch of grey


thick dark hair & a penchant

for oddities




she says: what do you know, yr

too old


or was that me


& shes too young, for



rolling her eyes at what,

a mere suggestion


suddenly, the sheer confidence

of youth


& glasses match, her new

blue coat


what she has come thru

so far




this is a darkness

that conveys a sense


of certain light, a thing

in recent memory


a colour that translates

a shape against the skin


or rightness, when remembered

w/ some


into the descriptiveness

of seeing


what had not been there




April ‘02





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