ditch,

the poetry that matters

rob mclennan

rob mclennan lives in Ottawa, even though he was born there. The author of over a dozen trade books of poetry, fiction and non-fiction, he spent the 2007-8 academic year as writer-in-residence at the University of Alberta. The editor/publisher of Chaudiere Books, Poetics.ca (with Stephen Brockwell), above/ground press, and ottawater, his online home is robmclennan.blogspot.com


    

photo by Christine McNair

from solids, or, strike-out (a suite)

 

 

 

adjunct

 

 

I know nothing of eden but the lack of parties would have probably

killed me

 

I am looking back on eating an apple

 

the conductor is clear as the sky

 

the texture squeaks of the curds on my coloured teeth

 

everything credits to a lack of understatement

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

poem (three dog night)

 

 

I stand a urinals chance away

 

we fall in & out of step

 

the dog at the end of the street barks at nothing

 

who am I to suggest

 

the house is much bigger than the shed

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

a corollary

 

 

the squeak of the cart is like a mouse

 

the tension that pulls us apart & holds

 

I am studying the window the horizon

 

a buddhist phrase of corn is not profound

 

I am destination more than I am willing

 

I am left w/ song & water paving

the same ground; covered

 

 

 

 

 

 

fire

 

 

proofing it right

 

the sequence of events is critical

 

if no the fire or the smoke or the trees

 

the speculation of time is question

 

these clouds thumbtack the hard moon

 

I am standing in the barn at seven

 

everything is not all right

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

the city

 

 

thinking squarely in the face

 

I passion trees; I heart the moon

 

exposition is not clear reason

 

the silo at the edge of barn as

old as I & crumbles

 

the city remembers bees

 

beauty squarely in the eye

 

could never look me in the you

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

house

 

 

at some point it was a good idea to put the couch out

 

the house in glen robertson the hill stands

 

tim hortons coffee fresh as the ice

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

he says, when in rome. . .

 

 

instinct my critical song; my failed life

as a montreal go-go dancer

 

thighs out to ready; heart the wind

 

I am as proceedural as stone berth

 

harkening the telltale thump of heart all

roads lead to

 

no more oldies; stop playing that middle

of the road shit

 

I am dead outside

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

religion

 

 

the merit of association is punctuated

 

I heart & the world hearts me

 

brockwell laughs at aphids, not aphorisms

 

I am the other way around

 

the tree at the top of the hill is a red line

 

a suggestion of birds overwhelm

 

the water is think & reliable

 

if being afraid of the arc needs a bite-light

 

 

 

 

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