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Aubade
Book by McLennan, Rob
- GenresPoetry
160 pages, Paperback
First published September 30, 2006
About the author
Rob Mclennan
129 books86 followersBorn in Ottawa, Canada’s glorious capital city, rob mclennan currently lives in Ottawa. The author of nearly thirty trade books of poetry, fiction and non-fiction, he won the John Newlove Poetry Award in 2010, the Council for the Arts in Ottawa Mid-Career Award in 2014, and was longlisted for the CBC Poetry Prize in 2012.
In Canadian Literature, Gordon Bölling praised his novel Missing Persons as “a welcome addition to the body of Canadian prairie fiction.” His collection of short fiction, The Uncertainty Principle has been described as: “Little flash fictions, some quirky, some funny, some touching. A fun read.” (Pearl Pirie). In a review on the ottawa poetry newsletter, Ryan Pratt wrote that “Thanks to mclennan’s discipline, our experience reading The Uncertainty Principle requires none. Organized to accommodate brief interactions (which, like the psychology behind bite-sized chocolate bars, results here in complete overindulgence), the book proves incessantly fresh, taken as a whole or in cursory, page-flipping handfuls.”
An editor and publisher, he runs above/ground press, Chaudiere Books, The Garneau Review (ottawater.com/garneaureview), seventeen seconds: a journal of poetry and poetics (ottawater.com/seventeenseconds), Touch the Donkey (touchthedonkey.blogspot.com) and the Ottawa poetry pdf annual ottawater (ottawater.com), as well as organizes the semi-annual ottawa small press book fair, which he co-founded in 1994. 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 robmclennan.blogspot.com
In Canadian Literature, Gordon Bölling praised his novel Missing Persons as “a welcome addition to the body of Canadian prairie fiction.” His collection of short fiction, The Uncertainty Principle has been described as: “Little flash fictions, some quirky, some funny, some touching. A fun read.” (Pearl Pirie). In a review on the ottawa poetry newsletter, Ryan Pratt wrote that “Thanks to mclennan’s discipline, our experience reading The Uncertainty Principle requires none. Organized to accommodate brief interactions (which, like the psychology behind bite-sized chocolate bars, results here in complete overindulgence), the book proves incessantly fresh, taken as a whole or in cursory, page-flipping handfuls.”
An editor and publisher, he runs above/ground press, Chaudiere Books, The Garneau Review (ottawater.com/garneaureview), seventeen seconds: a journal of poetry and poetics (ottawater.com/seventeenseconds), Touch the Donkey (touchthedonkey.blogspot.com) and the Ottawa poetry pdf annual ottawater (ottawater.com), as well as organizes the semi-annual ottawa small press book fair, which he co-founded in 1994. 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 robmclennan.blogspot.com
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Displaying 1 of 1 review
January 20, 2022
a kind of anthology, hardens
in front of
eyes wide
wrappt in blankets
at the rear of the trunk
, white elephants
* * *
sets out a reminder, a
remainder
block upon block, a
screw loose
can disembowel
& everything, what else
happens
always one third
of the commercial
drops off
* * *
forgets the words, but hums
most of the way
tears up into, the
body's own
cavity, creates
a harness length
sings out, a scream, clears
the brainpan
television sports, or
the ice blocks
shatter, skin
& glass melt
* * *
beyond the shores of. parkign spaces,
near the airport.
or babylonian ruin, a month
of turkish prison. sleeping
in the cold.
feeding off whatever close. the inches
become minutes, become miles.
* * *
where were you, motel room. saskatoon, winnipeg.
forgets to mark out connecting dots, &| days of travel -
trains, or air. single molecules emit, at degrees
a second, & release. heat despite cold. dry lips
oughta drink more water. wake up every half hour.
* * *
it takes bu a moment to surpass
yr own existence, grey scrapings
flaking off the moon. the snow white
of mistaken weather through hard march.
if i could sleep for twelve hours, i think
that i would, old
hibernation, the positioning
of venus, mars, pinprickt
in the heavens, just above
grey angel spires.
* * *
make a mark
a line in sand
wind blows, rain
& snow goes
if youd come
home, id let
the springtime
terror, where
water
trickles down
mistaken array
of stars
& giants made,
withering
w/ heat marks,
trembles
* * *
just call me angel, trilogy
minus two
what winter here is not
a season, even
late spring
dance & image, art
or goes the way of
spaghetti
gesture
if ______ is supposed
to call
more of me melts
than nothing
* * *
to be hated by extremists, not always
a bad thing. shows off
your positioning.
fingers thru hair, red lines
of travel. small cut
on the thumb.
stacks of hair in the backyard. a hammer
echoes can be heard miles off.
we dont know where the red goes.
* * *
does it matter what you are listening.
you are listening.
daisy on my desktop wilts & dies,
even sun & moon not enough to make it.
every step into a poem
is a new beginning, is there ever
a middle. this is the middle.
an insect crawling up my window,
thin legs from the inside.
construction crews tear up the lot
across the street. what once was fire, some
years back. watched it from the corner
w/ john, & susan. in winter,
when the nights were bare, & all else
reminded me of something.
even this is an end. even this
is a beginning.
* * *
reasonable bodies
permit so
spell out
clear indication
in motion
& continue
camera the eye
& some behavior
out of the box,
terribly new
or for forever,
on & in on
* * *
so down here,
it seems
as yet unmade
discovery
toward madness
& against
protests of source
& accuracy
an archaeology
of afterwords
between delay
& postponement
the primacy
of forthcoming
* * *
the west coast trail, & books
of rhetoric
w/ god, w/ the muse,
chancing it
the beautiful blankness
of absence
in the middle of the argument
both to return
& to go on
: a dispatch of silence
in front of
eyes wide
wrappt in blankets
at the rear of the trunk
, white elephants
- headlights, pg. 10
* * *
sets out a reminder, a
remainder
block upon block, a
screw loose
can disembowel
& everything, what else
happens
always one third
of the commercial
drops off
- television, pg. 15
* * *
forgets the words, but hums
most of the way
tears up into, the
body's own
cavity, creates
a harness length
sings out, a scream, clears
the brainpan
television sports, or
the ice blocks
shatter, skin
& glass melt
- aubade, 2, pg. 23
* * *
beyond the shores of. parkign spaces,
near the airport.
or babylonian ruin, a month
of turkish prison. sleeping
in the cold.
feeding off whatever close. the inches
become minutes, become miles.
- exile, pg. 53
* * *
where were you, motel room. saskatoon, winnipeg.
forgets to mark out connecting dots, &| days of travel -
trains, or air. single molecules emit, at degrees
a second, & release. heat despite cold. dry lips
oughta drink more water. wake up every half hour.
- ice: melts on her skin. doesn't change, pg. 66
* * *
it takes bu a moment to surpass
yr own existence, grey scrapings
flaking off the moon. the snow white
of mistaken weather through hard march.
if i could sleep for twelve hours, i think
that i would, old
hibernation, the positioning
of venus, mars, pinprickt
in the heavens, just above
grey angel spires.
- montreal at night, pg. 71
* * *
make a mark
a line in sand
wind blows, rain
& snow goes
if youd come
home, id let
the springtime
terror, where
water
trickles down
mistaken array
of stars
& giants made,
withering
w/ heat marks,
trembles
- 'discipline as famous', pg. 86
* * *
just call me angel, trilogy
minus two
what winter here is not
a season, even
late spring
dance & image, art
or goes the way of
spaghetti
gesture
if ______ is supposed
to call
more of me melts
than nothing
- 'How you transform the wet / late-winter snow' - Jan Zwicky, pg. 104
* * *
to be hated by extremists, not always
a bad thing. shows off
your positioning.
fingers thru hair, red lines
of travel. small cut
on the thumb.
stacks of hair in the backyard. a hammer
echoes can be heard miles off.
we dont know where the red goes.
- 'how little the read, what is love love?' - Daphne Marlatt, pg. 110
* * *
does it matter what you are listening.
you are listening.
daisy on my desktop wilts & dies,
even sun & moon not enough to make it.
every step into a poem
is a new beginning, is there ever
a middle. this is the middle.
an insect crawling up my window,
thin legs from the inside.
construction crews tear up the lot
across the street. what once was fire, some
years back. watched it from the corner
w/ john, & susan. in winter,
when the nights were bare, & all else
reminded me of something.
even this is an end. even this
is a beginning.
- 'You are lost in your own prologue.' - Robert Kroetsch, pg. 112
* * *
reasonable bodies
permit so
spell out
clear indication
in motion
& continue
camera the eye
& some behavior
out of the box,
terribly new
or for forever,
on & in on
- (still motion), pg. 132
* * *
so down here,
it seems
as yet unmade
discovery
toward madness
& against
protests of source
& accuracy
an archaeology
of afterwords
between delay
& postponement
the primacy
of forthcoming
- two flies on the ceiling, pg. 142
* * *
the west coast trail, & books
of rhetoric
w/ god, w/ the muse,
chancing it
the beautiful blankness
of absence
in the middle of the argument
both to return
& to go on
: a dispatch of silence
- erasure, of the encounter, pg. 150
Displaying 1 of 1 review