rob’s website
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See rob’s interview with Gil McElroy in this issue.
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rob’s poetry in Spring 2001.
a poetry chapbook by
rob mclennan
The next step I tripped to my knees on barbed wire.
— Stephen Brockwell, The Wire In Fences
the first thing to do is abandon style
so many themes come up, storm
& resolution, coasts on political science courses,
who dont know the goings on of the world
whether the debate is bad or good
making, by the end of the day, a case built
in less than five minutes
an attack on preliminary senses, a plane goes down
but an earthquake hits just as hard
(tho gets less coverage)
the fires that raged
from hull across the lumber yards
the booth street bridge providing limbs
for homes & the razing of fire
crossing water
& taking how many generations of ash down w/
(wanting to be, then, anywhere but here
a little white lie meant to be read
a little white line
the spaces as improbable
& the poems themselves
she says
: give me a little
shine on, sweet prince
taking rhyme one blue eye
& one brown
(my mothers eyes are hazel, both
the questions i have abt the prairies
can you see each way to ocean, or
is it more the crater, where there is
only sky?
w/ visiting interludes & the whole of this short life
(the urge to rebuild)
spring loaded
& burning dead grass back
trying to cross the borders where there are none, natch
the silence that breaks, & then the flood
the crowd goes wild
& streams into the middle
yvchenko
, who once calld phil esposito
canadas greatest poet,
o
pray for me, now, paul henderson
, the full script of man
& knowledge of all things
the earth
making waves to correct, influx
of weather & the wider spray
between
earthquakes, floods first time winter
newspapers
telling me what i knew (all along
/make my day
break out a system
& buy a lot of cannd goods, just in case
there are no borders, we have to face that
how the cold wind blows, or which way
(apart from the noise)
& mercury making reference to the trade
drive across
a day trip spend ten dollars
instead of twelve
curl a smoke ring round a sensitive
or knows the fate of happiness
, taking stock
& discoveries, along the way
kid his first play at the metal detect,
a buried bag of russian coin
in his fathers field, o england
what do we find here, old bones, remains
of viking ships off newfoundland or nova scotia
or arrowheads in magazines
rows
of 1950s bottles in the family cellar,
among the jars of pickles, jam preserves
& rotting books, the mound
of rancid wood & earth eroding
that once was cabin here
for grandfathers sugar camp, well back
into the century forties, even
a matter of reconciliation, past & future
(if we are to live –
array of wares from old books (that rarely
wave back
historical plaques that designate need
, what once remained
& enjoyd by
(till we tore it, down
the memory of comets & a barrage of -ologies
(you in t-shirt, jeans radiant
in simplicity
red deer, alberta where we saw
no deer
harbinger of note, what doom or new birth
(clandestine superheroes
the challenger & halleys tail, where some of us
even saw the links
, touch
& merge
II
we remain by the fire small eyes watching
– Clare Latremouille, outlaw
the time & the seasons change
i tell stories, to walk you in/to
as the space takes shape, turns
i read the papers, but
the angel soars, but never walks
to be alive, what has to be done
grandmother slips, sees
the past so clearly but forgets
(in flashback)
a walk across shaky ground,
slides
& photographs that display a previous life
christmas & birthdays, first
days of school, or
primordial soup left
for mice to chew & insects
break back into the earth (at the end
designed to be both informative & provocative,
theory & practice
/all language arts
& unladen swallow (african or european
deciding the stretch of days early on
moving w/ instead of against the grain
childbirth & domestic strain
– in that direction
& appeasement of comfort in that
sullen space
/the world again from ground
– girl rolls her eyes
says, daddy
, grow up
but the wreckage has never been found,
talking abt amelia earharts plane,
the dozens of theories on her disappearance been advanct
where she has gone
& 63 years
of wondering
/or glenn miller, the plane
that never lifted english airspace
so much in, of mysteries
yet
to be
need this bother anyone but historians,
new information,
changing the tint of previous wrath
or where my mum was born
the official stance on louis riel, where GG
says okay,
or the taste of love in the prairies
ringing in the ear dry lips velocity
foothillfoot
& paying a price
for that freedom
/eats at you
(to step into yr own misery
& puts on two shows a night –
the calgary airport announcement,
someone
has left a viking helmet at security
(what authority
*
what the norse invaders did when they hit dry land
,they flew
& not a footfall to trace them by
bits of clothing left to keep it fresh
but turnd out sour, like the best
love songs do
III
I will forget where I’m leading you, lapse // & feel it
– Margaret Christakos, the moment coming
when sentences become harsh, & phrases
begin to repeat
stories & the boundaries of
log rings in the english surf as old (or
older) as stonehenge
i guess you lost that when you got
the other job (astronomers,
& the movement of planes
& book reviewers always miss the point (its what
they do
a presumption of internal & external body clock,
& finding out the thinking of the thots (he
screams, i scream:
(the reason for the season:
absinthe, & orillia (dont mix (& where
paul has disappeard to, a plane
from prague
/tut tut – the discovery
of radioactive gas in old egyptian structures,
dangerous levels that kill,
built up over centuries
the king tut tomb 25 in 1922,
& rumours of malevolent spirits
& curses
(i dont believe it)
/the marriage of the sun & moon
where the (historians) figure into it, the mark
of multiple zeroes & a looking back
(the year my voice broke)
january first, two thousand & my computer
flips back to 1980
/i woke up
wearing brown courdouroy pants & mumbling
elvis costello lyrics
(i wish)
not even ten years old
& john lennon still alive mere months
since old dief put in the soil
(max, the two thousand year old mouse
– i was there
duped w/ every paycheque,
sister a block from international bridge,
turning left (see: cornwall) to american border, somewhere
underneath the vision of surface light
: reflected water, st lawrence
messing up the waters edge
vancouver calld
‘the happiest place in the world’
(by somebody)
sweet
backdrop of mountains (north)
(when only the best will do)
w/ a wind chill of -30 in the capital
cartoon characters older than my parents try to sell me
sandwiches, cars
damn you, time-warner (me
shaking my oversized fist in the air
everything to do w/ the moment here
& the moment past (forthcoming
heritage bits on the cbc (badly
dubbed) telling us
the little things that mean a lot (or should
secrets of a war service, what my grandmother keeps
as her mind continues to deteriorate,
& what bubbles forth, resurfaced
: flashes of london, casablanca
: ” ” (echoes)
*
: no matter what time the game begins
the coverage starts televized at 6 hours previous
w/ singers & dancers & all stars
& presidents & sponsors & celebration
& replays & trivia & prizes
& ephemera
& maybe on the game play
/ what all of this could be
,after all
or looking back thru 50 years
of the capital
temporary buildings from the war
replaced 3 decades or more later
/historical plaques – we tore down
this beautiful victorian house owned
by a confederation poet
to build
white stucco government blocks
the matters of progress that happen
the bus pulls up in front of my window
annual chinatown fire taking down
looking for a shopping mall
daily girl where she gets her coffee & ignores me
: or whatever else the hell im on about
or curry & jen in minus degree weather
watching the street freeze solid
& buildings next to them burn,
once evacuated
: to watch bad television
in my living room
to warm up,
both sides now
of their red brick turnd
: empty lots
IV We keep one path clear when space turns thresholds temporal
– Judith Fitzgerald, 26 Ways Out of this World
at the edge of questioning & discovery
british engineers moving tons of rock (by hand)
in old positions, tracing to learn
the problem solved w/ base technology (rope
& wood)
thousands of years back
the mongol pride tearing limbs apart,
& keep hands clear
tracing the silk roads forever (then)
smooth texture as soil rubs across the face
flushing out the schools of resentment, demand & lore
(how does one study?
& early manuscripts put on the internet
(www.kingarthur.co.uk)
an access to info moved extreme thru signals
the positions of learning & carrying grace
*
too large to roll into squeeseable tubes
(because she doesnt like roses)
*
metal spears sunk deep
into corpses & sand
in pre-war china, the wipe
of memory & teaching years (they just
wont say ) erase
of a certain pride built in
/the brain to small to get the pieces fit
like being coverd in cat hair, when you dont even
own a fucking cat)
the highland clearances
& irish potato famine
filling the other side of the ocean w/ ships
halifax & new york,
st johns & montreal,
(the biggest part of history, what cant
be seen
) probably pushing
my family out too
& three generations of john that resulted
(& then one,
w/ a brother john
(tho different middle name)
like two teams of rough riders,
saskatchewan & ottawa,
a deplorable
lack of inventiveness
just as the horizon isnt necessarily a safe goal,
pushing one to fall & let gravity spoil,
a constant theme
(when i skin my knee)
like photographs ive never seen or dont remember
that have me in them
(where
did you get those?
(all that i need….
to see how explosively we have arrived
& alterd our surroundings
calgary, nearly
one million souls, & ottawa,
already there
(same
as saskatchewan
) finding old equipment in a field,
& wondering what it was for
the internet stretching like dog years,
expanse of seven pusht into one
some of us still write letters & poems by hand,
enjoy the thickness
of unprocesst milk, or popcorn
a pot on the stove
/arranging our days out by latitudes,
& the shape of the wind
bringing me ever closer to my own inner truth,
the new yorker up to 62 feats, in the guiness
book of world records
including a pogo stick hop for a mile
aware of mans versatility & potential,
awakening something,
& new kind of impetus for events
how quickly a building
can rise up or fall
bank street, ottawa
since ive been here, evolving
& shifting
as well on the home front,
dad sells the quota, cows
& wonders what to do now
(health,
& otherwise factors)
,the stability of homestead
(not out of nowhere,
but sudden, not even
fifty nine years)
& afraid
for what might happen next,
that quality of the unknown
what leonard cohen used to claim,
returning to montreal
to keep up neurotic afflictions, & mine too,
a familial base,
his sister
long still in their westmount home
& what might happen to mine,
the two of us wanderd off,
& wondering
or what i saw
of my grandmothers A frame
after she died, me
barely a teen, the house
the hired man & brood became
/where my father arrived, a touchstone
how much of any path do we keep clear,
snow falling behind
& covering tracks
until
we see weve lost it, the trail
home
& frighteningly close to nightmare, blair witch
or hitchcock walking thru the poem
w/ dogs
(tell me when you notice)
(i expected more darkness)
& what now in clearing, occurs
email my parents have but never return,
& phone a twisted phobia i wont get into
(havent the space)
/the kind of forever that cant be quantified
sundays child is full of grace
but spills out days all over the place
