Born in Ottawa, Canada's glorious capital city, rob mclennan currently lives in Ottawa.
The author of more than twenty trade books of poetry, fiction and non-fiction, his most
recent titles are the poetry collections Glengarry (2011), kate street (2011), wild horses
(2010), and a second novel, missing persons (2009), An editor and publisher, he runs
above/ground press, Chaudiere Books (with Jennifer Mulligan), The Garneau Review,
seventeen seconds: a journal of poetry and poetics and the Ottawa poetry pdf annual
ottawater. He spent the 2007-8 academic year in Edmonton as writer-in-residence at
the University of Alberta, and regularly posts reviews, essays, interviews and other
notices at

Old farmers, field

Side entrance to lilacs, trees fenced in,
walk us at noon, last seen
, pavement; courtesy of expansion,

outstanding, in the field; or winded,

broken window cafe plights
a growth spurt; bookstore of leaves
, could go with houses, petrified,
She tries her tongue a crude,

wholesome, enduring salvage; the records
show, that; heritage of undefined,
in special projects
, folder focus evidence a folding, in

or cut up, carve, disjunct, divorce, a parting
, severance,

collectible, proliferate; she recommends
, you punch out stars
, some good advice;

Suburban aria,

A mist of, fills the lungs; bruised clouds
kept in motion; commercial jets that lift,
against the windy grain; an opera house
of yellow company,

queen of quick-fast; sell me
your love,

what beauty left left me in rags; fathom
of a pressure, when

, intestines rupture, break
, re-colonize; left in song,

scrubbed off your machine; a dusty
, a painting of John Lennon
& Santa Claus is just,
, confusing

Calcium deposit,

Cipher; heritage, a grey & bitter,
looking down; beloved litany, a twitter
, that which I have not,

a shelf-life in Vancouver; crossed over
Sapper's Bridge
, unpleasant over; insisting, out of sleeves,

remained, insistent; everything remains,

a corpse of lodge pines, conifers, what left
, of leaving, realized, left
my understanding; complex,

the last of which Longinus said,

portrait of a soft space, writing
, stairway lying on his back, forever

poem written at eden mills

A fact is brutal it stands over a hole.
- Karen Houle, during

a curious balance of cars
& camouflage ushers

how full the hand curves

rain striates sudden damp paths
of what once was a house

& what might be again

a landscape of giants
& the violence

of those small ontario towns

sadder than rock,
settled loyalist stone

parceling bookshelves, tables
& a surface of wet

amid these distractions, how easily
they change size & shape, how fully

they embody a break
in the language of river, sound

nestled there in the bulrushes

Back to Front.