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Jan 22, 2013
Category: General
Posted by: Admin

“In the Dream Room of the Past” featured on The Fiddlehead volume No. 254, Winter 2013

Jul 17, 2012
Category: General
Posted by: Admin
Botero's Beautiful Horses by Jan Conn Reviewed by Janet Grafton (The Goose, issue 9, summer 2011 - pages 25, 26, 27).
Sep 29, 2011
Category: General
Posted by: Jan
Poetry reading and book signing at 27 West Strand Street, Kingston, NY 12401  845.338.1688 Saturday, October 1st, 5-7p.m.  Reading at 5:30
Jun 29, 2011
Category: General
Posted by: Admin
For a fresh look at Jan Conn's first book, Red Shoes in the Rain (Fiddlehead, 1984), take a look: Red Shoes in the Rain, at Books Under Skin
Feb 1, 2011
Category: General
Posted by: Admin
Jan Conn as poet and biologist: homage in online Brazilian journal Alexandria
Revista de Educacao em Ciencia e Tecnologia

Volume 3  Número 3   Novembro de 2010, pp. 123-125.
go to Literatura, arte e ciência (.pdf)

Featured Poems

Battered Civilization

A sock particle was detected in the supercollider. Can I make time out of bacteria? Trade genomes for another year of elephants? A parody of my pernicious scheme unravels but the scheme itself is silk. Which is more pervasive, night mist or provincialism? The hidden world of buzz-saws shakes me from sleep. I was trying to hold my own. I don’t like canned salmon, except the crunchy bones. Above the city walls float medieval pennants. Listen to Neil Young, you’ll get it. Into deepening blackness lit by a branch of forsythia I stride forward, edges inflamed, and inch sideways out of my body. Later I am all pause, all hesitation. A foot on carpet, a foot on cold stone floor. Of my earlier existence all that remains is a grey felt hat. I release my internal structure. It rises to the top and floats. Did I mention my undocumented status? My recharged emotional state? The big green fractal or tree, bent and streaming in the hurricane-force wind. Whose corpus callosum is shrunk by the wanton application of neurotoxins? Something trails behind my tall narrow yellow shoulders, rolls in with the motorcycle. I unpack the bangbox first, catalyzing the situation in the baggage room. Strains of old Beatles’ tunes, doves moaning in the gridlocked attic. I’ve an earlier century in mind, a time when cotton bags were varnished for carrying water.

Originally published in The Malahat Review, Autumn 2013; also in The Best Canadian Poetry Anthology, 2014.