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ROB MCLENNAN  

rob mclennan lives & writes in Ottawa, Canada's glorious capital, even though he was born there. The author of ten poetry collections, he has edited numerous anthologies including side/lines: a new Canadian poetics & Groundswell: best of above/ground press,1993-2003. The editor/publisher of above/ground press & STANZAS magazine, he edits the online critical journal Poetics.ca with Ottawa poet Stephen Brockwell, & recently released the first issue of the online Ottawa poetry journal ottawater.

These poems are from a work in progress called solids, or, strike-out (a suite)

COMPOSITION

radio where I learn my everything

the red mailbox outside the dead pub no longer in use

this is the key to describing all arbitrary affect

the boredom is fascinating; overdone

I will not register my imagination

AFTER SUNSET

the impossible moon rises to replace the impossible sun

if these words were always yours or mine

the ice cube releases heat as it melts in the glass

I am a false map of desire

how can it be that the shadows are gathered

FENCELINE

the block that holds the park, thin hints

to instigate construction

I am at the end of subject matter

between the river & the glass reflects

Id like to address the demands of writing

Id like to address lung capacity

like a phoenix her poetics greet

SYMPHONY

the repetition is a constant vigil

hold your hands to take the jellybeans from the

vending machine

two wrongs dont make alight

it dont matter what you did

justice spins like car wheels overturned

I needed

I told them what I loved & why

DISCURSIVE

it is all too far to bring the world out as it is

when am I going to make the fray

three dogs decide

the unruliest of birds

the writers festival forgets

her children I have never met

a tactile displacement

writing leads writing to only

AN EVENTUAL SCREENPLAY

today the doctor wants to know the score

it was in the dream

a call from orlando while youre still young

I keep dreaming of living alone

if I knew my words once filled & fashioned

I call her miss atom bomb; I call her

blonde bombshell

a humble icon of further imagination

I think singing must be in beautiful cellars

 copyright © rob mclennan