Jean LeBlanc

Books by Jean LeBlanc for the Backwaters Press

At Any Moment At Any Moment by Jean LeBlanc

Author: Jean LeBlanc
ISBN:: 9781935218111
Published:: February 2010

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Critical Praise for At Any Moment by Jean LeBlanc

LeBlanc’s poems exquisitely render several worlds: images of a New England childhood replete with their reticent delight and sorrow; the hidden landscape of a teacher’s connection with her students, and the chaos of the garden gone wild. At Any Moment leads us to anticipate and to discover the joy slipped through our fingers, and we are never disappointed. The deft lines and language craft a place in which we somehow find those worlds of our own.

Priscilla Orr, Jugglers & Tides

To read Jean LeBlanc’s At Any Moment is to fall in love with poetry all over again. If I thought I could get by with it, I’d steal a dozen of these poems and call them my own. Reader, trust me—”What’s here will be exactly what you need.”

David Huddle, Summer Lake: New & Selected Poems and Grayscale

How does Jean LeBlanc make her poems so comfortably alive? Her candor, yes. Images already there. Full of surprise, but amiably free of shock. She is one of us, being singular. Such a pleasure, then, to enter and re-enter her world, poem after poem, and to share in the canny play of her language, to follow the casual gambits of her agile mind as she turns the commonplace on its ear. On her ear. I laughed out loud. I’m so pleased. I ache with the unexpected familiarity of her feelings. Her fancies. I find I am thinking of her as Jeannie. Look out! Look out! It’s like falling in love again. I’m going to read At Any Moment, one poem a day, to my wife.

Edward Lueders, The Clam Lake Papers, Writing Natural History, Reflections on a Gift of Watermelon Pickle, and Like Underground Water: The Poetry of Mid-Twentieth Century Japan

Poems from Jean LeBlanc’s At Any Moment


“The wildflower corner,” my husband generously calls it,
the place where I scatter seed heads from last year’s
coneflowers, bee balm, black eyed sue’s.

Last fall, I waved a mullein candelabra over this patch
like a holy woman blessing the crops.
This is the piece of yard I hope becomes

instant garden. One day I’ll go out and find
the work done for me, the neighbors
gathered ,round in admiration.

They applaud when I appear.
Of course it is an unmown mess
of garlic mustard, dame’s rocket, celandine,

assorted unloved common weeds.
It is the leading edge of vacant lot
from the other side of the fence,

as if we could put up a barricade, declaring
one side forsaken, the other victory.
As if we see the difference in advance.
As if we plan disorder’s aftermath.

Daylight Savings Time Begins

With spring not two weeks old
we foretell the rest:

summer’s morning glories
blue against the fence at dawn

the taste of basil
tomatoes warm from the sun

sedum flowers’ coriander scent
and halo of bees in a frenzy

everything brown from drought
everything gone with frost.

Two weeks into spring
we leap ahead an hour,
already too late.


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