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)







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










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














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













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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