If one of your New Year’s resolutions is to read more poetry, or to write more poetry, or to stop writing those difficult and obscure organic-intuitive poems that no one understands and to start writing those accessible and reader-friendly humorous and poignant poems that everybody loves, and if you want to see how it’s done, well, you’re in luck, because my new book of poems Pitching for the Apostates is just out from Kelsay Books, and you can order a copy here, which I hope you will do:
Showing posts with label Paul Hostovsky. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Paul Hostovsky. Show all posts
Wednesday, December 27, 2023
Pitching for the Apostates by Paul Hostovsky
Frequent contributor Paul Hostovsky sends word of his new release from Kelsay Books, published December 4:
Monday, July 3, 2023
Paul Hostovsky
OSIP
Osip Mandelstam wrote a poem
making fun of Stalin. It got Osip
in a lot of trouble. He recited it
at a salon where it got some laughs
and then someone informed on him
and he ended up dying in a Gulag
in the Soviet Far East. I wrote a poem
making fun of Donald Trump and it got
no attention because this is America
where nobody listens to poets or reads
their poems. And maybe Osip would say
I should be grateful I live in a country
where nobody listens to poets or reads
their poems, a country where you are free
to say what you want to say, no matter
if it’s false or hateful or hurtful or divisive
or throwing gasoline on the fire that
OK maybe you didn’t exactly start
or exactly yell in a crowded theater,
but you’re fanning the flames and it’s
not only legal but politically expedient,
and all the snow in Siberia won’t put it out.
Paul's YouTube video reading of "Osip"
Paul confesses: "I published a poem making fun of Trump called 'Trump Inaugural Poem' (because he didn’t have an inaugural poem). It got no reaction. I couldn’t help thinking of Mandelstam–who got a reaction–and of the crimes of Stalin, and of the crimes of Trump. Then I wrote this one."
PAUL HOSTOVSKY's poems have won Pushcart Prize, two Best of the Net Awards, the FutureCycle Poetry Book Prize, and have been featured on Poetry Daily, Verse Daily, Best American Poetry, and The Writer's Almanac. Website: paulhostovsky.com
Osip Mandelstam wrote a poem
making fun of Stalin. It got Osip
in a lot of trouble. He recited it
at a salon where it got some laughs
and then someone informed on him
and he ended up dying in a Gulag
in the Soviet Far East. I wrote a poem
making fun of Donald Trump and it got
no attention because this is America
where nobody listens to poets or reads
their poems. And maybe Osip would say
I should be grateful I live in a country
where nobody listens to poets or reads
their poems, a country where you are free
to say what you want to say, no matter
if it’s false or hateful or hurtful or divisive
or throwing gasoline on the fire that
OK maybe you didn’t exactly start
or exactly yell in a crowded theater,
but you’re fanning the flames and it’s
not only legal but politically expedient,
and all the snow in Siberia won’t put it out.
Paul's YouTube video reading of "Osip"
Paul confesses: "I published a poem making fun of Trump called 'Trump Inaugural Poem' (because he didn’t have an inaugural poem). It got no reaction. I couldn’t help thinking of Mandelstam–who got a reaction–and of the crimes of Stalin, and of the crimes of Trump. Then I wrote this one."
Monday, June 5, 2023
Paul Hostovsky
SMILE
I don’t speak your language
and you don’t speak mine–
but there is this smile,
the one that means I wish
I knew your language,
this shy, innocent, ignorant,
helpless smile that says
This is all I know how to say
in your language,
this smile I imagine
someone among the first
explorers might have smiled
at someone among the first
Indigenous people they encountered—
just might have–
before all the violence began.
This smile that somehow survived
all the violence,
and all the ignorance,
and all the unspeakable crimes,
and blossoms here on my face now,
and on your face.
Paul's YouTube video reading of "Smile":
Paul confesses: "My roofer hired men who did not speak English. They were brown, of indeterminate ethnicity–Arab, Mexican, Guatemalan, Marshallese? It was hot. I brought them water. I could only smile at them. They smiled back. I never feel so white as when I’m smiling at a person of color. Thence the poem."
PAUL HOSTOVSKY's poems have won Pushcart Prize, two Best of the Net Awards, the FutureCycle Poetry Book Prize, and have been featured on Poetry Daily, Verse Daily, Best American Poetry, and The Writer's Almanac. Website: paulhostovsky.com
I don’t speak your language
and you don’t speak mine–
but there is this smile,
the one that means I wish
I knew your language,
this shy, innocent, ignorant,
helpless smile that says
This is all I know how to say
in your language,
this smile I imagine
someone among the first
explorers might have smiled
at someone among the first
Indigenous people they encountered—
just might have–
before all the violence began.
This smile that somehow survived
all the violence,
and all the ignorance,
and all the unspeakable crimes,
and blossoms here on my face now,
and on your face.
Paul's YouTube video reading of "Smile":
Paul confesses: "My roofer hired men who did not speak English. They were brown, of indeterminate ethnicity–Arab, Mexican, Guatemalan, Marshallese? It was hot. I brought them water. I could only smile at them. They smiled back. I never feel so white as when I’m smiling at a person of color. Thence the poem."
Saturday, April 23, 2016
Day 23: Mystery Playground features "Guilt at the Transfer Station"
On Day 23 of 30 Days of The Five-Two, Deb Lacy's Mystery Playground features "Guilt at the Transfer Station".
Feel free to join the tour with a comment, tweet, or blog post of your own. Here's the schedule.
Feel free to join the tour with a comment, tweet, or blog post of your own. Here's the schedule.
Monday, January 11, 2016
Paul Hostovsky
CAIN & ABEL
The first murder was my
first murder. I must have
been all of three or four
when I first heard that story.
I remember feeling sorry
for Abel. I mean it was so
irrevocable. So unbelievable.
So unfair. He actually killed him.
Killed. And how did I know
what kill meant? Someone
must have explained it to me.
That’s the part I don’t remember.
It was probably my mother,
after reading the story aloud
from some illustrated book
of Bible stories for children.
I must have looked at the illustration
for a very long time—Cain
holding up a large rock, Abel
lying crumpled on the ground,
God somewhere outside the picture—
and then I must have looked
to my mother for an explanation.
And then I must have looked
back at the picture, as we always
do, as though the picture somehow
could explain the explanation.
Paul reads "Cain & Abel":
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Paul confesses: "Killing, on the ball field, was always figurative: We killed 'em, we slaughtered 'em, we mutilated 'em. As a kid, I thought 'mutilate' meant to utterly defeat, to keep scoreless. I only learned the literal meaning much later. When do we learn what killing is? Do we come into this world knowing it somehow? This poem tries to remember, or imagine, the answer to that."
PAUL HOSTOVSKY is the author of eight books of poetry, most recently The Bad Guys, which won the FutureCycle Poetry Book Prize for 2015. To read more of his work, visit him at www.paulhostovsky.com.
The first murder was my
first murder. I must have
been all of three or four
when I first heard that story.
I remember feeling sorry
for Abel. I mean it was so
irrevocable. So unbelievable.
So unfair. He actually killed him.
Killed. And how did I know
what kill meant? Someone
must have explained it to me.
That’s the part I don’t remember.
It was probably my mother,
after reading the story aloud
from some illustrated book
of Bible stories for children.
I must have looked at the illustration
for a very long time—Cain
holding up a large rock, Abel
lying crumpled on the ground,
God somewhere outside the picture—
and then I must have looked
to my mother for an explanation.
And then I must have looked
back at the picture, as we always
do, as though the picture somehow
could explain the explanation.
Paul reads "Cain & Abel":
Subscribe to Channel Five-Two for first view of new videos.
Paul confesses: "Killing, on the ball field, was always figurative: We killed 'em, we slaughtered 'em, we mutilated 'em. As a kid, I thought 'mutilate' meant to utterly defeat, to keep scoreless. I only learned the literal meaning much later. When do we learn what killing is? Do we come into this world knowing it somehow? This poem tries to remember, or imagine, the answer to that."
Monday, August 31, 2015
Paul Hostovsky
GUILT AT THE TRANSFER STATION
There's a lot of baggage
in the garbage
at the transfer station,
which we used to call
the dump. Someone has thrown out
all these old suitcases,
a mattress and a box spring,
and a bunch of cardboard boxes which
the recycling cop is saying
are a violation: "They should be
broken down and recycled."
In the backseat of my car
a large black plastic bag
bulges guiltily, a small slit
divulging a suspicious-looking
refulgence. Black like a thief's
black woolen cap pulled down
over the shining evil face
of my old television, old computer,
and several small appliances—
cathode ray tubes which will take
a hundred thousand years
to biodegrade. When the Danish
nose tax was imposed in the 9th century,
delinquent taxpayers were punished
by having their noses slit.
But I'll be damned if I'm going to pay
the CRT recycling fee
just to throw out my old computer and TV,
especially after paying through the nose
for my new one. The leaden stink
of the unfairness of it all rises
as I lower my bag over the edge
of the world, the slit ripping open to reveal
a gaping, damning, luminous gash.
Paul reads "Guilt at the Transfer Station":
Subscribe to Channel Five-Two for first view of new videos.
Paul confesses: "In the town where I live, we take our own garbage to the dump. The things people throw out! It's a crime. Leftover cans of paint are a no-no. TVs, appliances, computers. Anything with cathode ray tubes. But they charge a fee to recycle the CRT's. So it's cheaper to just furtively toss them. Which I may or may not have ever done in my life. Poetry is fiction. But did you hear? Our country throws out 40% of the food we produce. Because it's cheaper to throw it out. If that's not a crime, I don't know what is."
PAUL HOSTOVSKY's newest book of poems is The Bad Guys (FutureCycle Press, 2015). His poems have won a Pushcart Prize and two Best of the Net Awards. He has been featured on Poetry Daily, Verse Daily, and The Writer's Almanac. He makes his living in Boston as a sign language interpreter and a Braille instructor. To read more of his work, visit him at www.paulhostovsky.com.
There's a lot of baggage
in the garbage
at the transfer station,
which we used to call
the dump. Someone has thrown out
all these old suitcases,
a mattress and a box spring,
and a bunch of cardboard boxes which
the recycling cop is saying
are a violation: "They should be
broken down and recycled."
In the backseat of my car
a large black plastic bag
bulges guiltily, a small slit
divulging a suspicious-looking
refulgence. Black like a thief's
black woolen cap pulled down
over the shining evil face
of my old television, old computer,
and several small appliances—
cathode ray tubes which will take
a hundred thousand years
to biodegrade. When the Danish
nose tax was imposed in the 9th century,
delinquent taxpayers were punished
by having their noses slit.
But I'll be damned if I'm going to pay
the CRT recycling fee
just to throw out my old computer and TV,
especially after paying through the nose
for my new one. The leaden stink
of the unfairness of it all rises
as I lower my bag over the edge
of the world, the slit ripping open to reveal
a gaping, damning, luminous gash.
Paul reads "Guilt at the Transfer Station":
Subscribe to Channel Five-Two for first view of new videos.
Paul confesses: "In the town where I live, we take our own garbage to the dump. The things people throw out! It's a crime. Leftover cans of paint are a no-no. TVs, appliances, computers. Anything with cathode ray tubes. But they charge a fee to recycle the CRT's. So it's cheaper to just furtively toss them. Which I may or may not have ever done in my life. Poetry is fiction. But did you hear? Our country throws out 40% of the food we produce. Because it's cheaper to throw it out. If that's not a crime, I don't know what is."
Monday, October 20, 2014
Paul Hostovsky
THE WRITING OF HARLOTS
Someone had written it on the bricks
outside of Mrs. Cunningham's 5th grade class
in big ugly letters: CARY EATS HOLLY’S CUNT.
But of course the letters themselves weren't ugly,
it was the words—it was that word—and the letters
were only made to look ugly by association,
the way Holly was made ugly by association
with that sentence. It was a complete sentence,
a perfectly grammatical sentence whose subject
Cary was. But while Cary was a subject familiar to us
(he sat behind me in Mrs. Cunningham's class),
that object was less familiar, and that verb,
though familiar, was unfamiliar in that context,
at least to most of us, if not all of us, who filed past it
into Mrs. Cunningham's class that morning,
already knowing much, desiring to learn more.
But nothing more was said about that word
or that sentence on that day in Mrs. Cunningham's class,
or the next day, or the next. And before we could
grasp it, or parse it, or know it at all, it disappeared,
or almost disappeared—we could still just
make out its skeleton, the faint ghosts of the letters,
after Tony our custodian did his best
to expunge it with a wire scrub-brush and bucket.
But who was responsible for it? That was
the question on everyone’s mind and on everyone's
lips, except for Mrs. Cunningham’s lips,
which never formed a word about that word,
or that sentence. But if she wasn't responsible
for telling us what it was, or what it meant,
or where it came from and why, then who was?
In time, of course, in our separate ways, we would all
learn what it was, what it meant, and where it
comes from and why. But who among us can say
he learned it in a way that didn't feel ugly
or illicit? Who among us can say he was taught
that it comes from beauty, or the desire for beauty?
Paul reads "The Writing of Harlots":
Subscribe to Channel Five-Two for first view of new videos.
Paul confesses: "The title comes from the literal meaning of the Greek word 'pornographia'. The poem comes from what somebody wrote on the wall outside of Mrs Cunningham's 5th grade class when I was 10 years old, and where it came from. And where it comes from."
PAUL HOSTOVSKY is the author of five books of poetry and six poetry chapbooks. His Selected Poems was published in 2014 by FutureCycle Press. He has won a Pushcart Prize and two Best of the Net awards, has been featured on Poetry Daily, Verse Daily, The Writer's Almanac, and was a Featured Poet on the Georgia Poetry Circuit 2013. He works in Boston as an Interpreter for the Deaf.
Someone had written it on the bricks
outside of Mrs. Cunningham's 5th grade class
in big ugly letters: CARY EATS HOLLY’S CUNT.
But of course the letters themselves weren't ugly,
it was the words—it was that word—and the letters
were only made to look ugly by association,
the way Holly was made ugly by association
with that sentence. It was a complete sentence,
a perfectly grammatical sentence whose subject
Cary was. But while Cary was a subject familiar to us
(he sat behind me in Mrs. Cunningham's class),
that object was less familiar, and that verb,
though familiar, was unfamiliar in that context,
at least to most of us, if not all of us, who filed past it
into Mrs. Cunningham's class that morning,
already knowing much, desiring to learn more.
But nothing more was said about that word
or that sentence on that day in Mrs. Cunningham's class,
or the next day, or the next. And before we could
grasp it, or parse it, or know it at all, it disappeared,
or almost disappeared—we could still just
make out its skeleton, the faint ghosts of the letters,
after Tony our custodian did his best
to expunge it with a wire scrub-brush and bucket.
But who was responsible for it? That was
the question on everyone’s mind and on everyone's
lips, except for Mrs. Cunningham’s lips,
which never formed a word about that word,
or that sentence. But if she wasn't responsible
for telling us what it was, or what it meant,
or where it came from and why, then who was?
In time, of course, in our separate ways, we would all
learn what it was, what it meant, and where it
comes from and why. But who among us can say
he learned it in a way that didn't feel ugly
or illicit? Who among us can say he was taught
that it comes from beauty, or the desire for beauty?
Paul reads "The Writing of Harlots":
Subscribe to Channel Five-Two for first view of new videos.
Paul confesses: "The title comes from the literal meaning of the Greek word 'pornographia'. The poem comes from what somebody wrote on the wall outside of Mrs Cunningham's 5th grade class when I was 10 years old, and where it came from. And where it comes from."
Monday, July 28, 2014
Paul Hostovsky
THE EMPEROR'S NEW CLOTHES
I stole a bathmat
from the Royal Copenhagen Hotel
because it said Royal Copenhagen on it
and how cool is that
for stepping out of your shower onto
every day of your life in America
as a souvenir
of a few dissolute days in Denmark?
I like to snuggle the rich velvety pile
with my ten poor stubby toes
while I’m still dripping from the shower,
which is where I get all my best ideas—
then I feel a little like Soren Kierkegaard,
and a little like King Frederick,
and a little like Hans Christian Andersen
getting out of his claw-foot tub
and getting a great idea,
and standing there for a few timeless
dripping moments,
then rushing to his writing table
and spinning the yarn, still naked,
in one inspired sitting,
his trail of wet footprints disappearing
before the ink had dried.
Paul reads "The Emperor's New Clothes":
Subscribe to Channel Five-Two for first view of new videos.
Paul confesses: "This poem was inspired by a recent shower, which is where I get all my best ideas, and by a bathmat that I stole from the Royal Copenhagen Hotel about 40 years ago, and by a lifelong love of all things Danish."
PAUL HOSTOVSKY is the author of five books of poetry and six poetry chapbooks. His Selected Poems was published in 2014 by FutureCycle Press. He has won a Pushcart Prize and two Best of the Net awards, has been featured on Poetry Daily, Verse Daily, The Writer's Almanac, and was a Featured Poet on the Georgia Poetry Circuit 2013. He works in Boston as an Interpreter for the Deaf.
I stole a bathmat
from the Royal Copenhagen Hotel
because it said Royal Copenhagen on it
and how cool is that
for stepping out of your shower onto
every day of your life in America
as a souvenir
of a few dissolute days in Denmark?
I like to snuggle the rich velvety pile
with my ten poor stubby toes
while I’m still dripping from the shower,
which is where I get all my best ideas—
then I feel a little like Soren Kierkegaard,
and a little like King Frederick,
and a little like Hans Christian Andersen
getting out of his claw-foot tub
and getting a great idea,
and standing there for a few timeless
dripping moments,
then rushing to his writing table
and spinning the yarn, still naked,
in one inspired sitting,
his trail of wet footprints disappearing
before the ink had dried.
Paul reads "The Emperor's New Clothes":
Subscribe to Channel Five-Two for first view of new videos.
Paul confesses: "This poem was inspired by a recent shower, which is where I get all my best ideas, and by a bathmat that I stole from the Royal Copenhagen Hotel about 40 years ago, and by a lifelong love of all things Danish."
Monday, December 16, 2013
Paul Hostovsky
STEALING BAND-AIDS FROM HOSPITALS
A kind of Robin Hood
taking from the health care industry
and giving to the little guy, the little
fingers, the little paper cuts and dry cracked hands
that needed to be covered. A kind of
John Henry going up against the engine
of the mega-hospitals,
marching into those waiting rooms
and turning off the televisions. A kind of
Johnny Appleseed turning off televisions
wherever he went, for the benefit of everyone, especially
the future generations.
And when they called out his name
in those hospital waiting rooms,
he was a kind of John Doe
or John Q. Public following the nurse
into the little examining room
and waiting there all alone with his body
and his backpack
for an eternity for the doctor to come—
plenty of time for appropriating
lots of Band-Aids and tongue depressors,
and rolls of surgical tape and gauze,
and maybe, come to think of it, some of these
elusive little boxes of tissues
that one finds in hospitals,
for the little guy
who can never seem to find them
when he needs them.
Paul reads "Stealing Band-Aids from Hospitals":
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Paul confesses: "I always steal a few Band-Aids when I'm waiting for the doctor to come. The longer he makes me wait, the more Band-Aids I steal. It's my little addiction, my little vindictive kleptocompulsion, which I engage in all alone in the little examining room, and which this poem examines and tries to justify."
PAUL HOSTOVSKY is the author of five books of poetry, most recently Naming Names (2013, Main Street Rag). His poems have won a Pushcart Prize and two Best of the Net awards. He has been featured on Poetry Daily, Verse Daily, The Writer's Almanac, and has been a featured poet on the Georgia Poetry Circuit. To read more of his work, visit him at www.paulhostovsky.com.
A kind of Robin Hood
taking from the health care industry
and giving to the little guy, the little
fingers, the little paper cuts and dry cracked hands
that needed to be covered. A kind of
John Henry going up against the engine
of the mega-hospitals,
marching into those waiting rooms
and turning off the televisions. A kind of
Johnny Appleseed turning off televisions
wherever he went, for the benefit of everyone, especially
the future generations.
And when they called out his name
in those hospital waiting rooms,
he was a kind of John Doe
or John Q. Public following the nurse
into the little examining room
and waiting there all alone with his body
and his backpack
for an eternity for the doctor to come—
plenty of time for appropriating
lots of Band-Aids and tongue depressors,
and rolls of surgical tape and gauze,
and maybe, come to think of it, some of these
elusive little boxes of tissues
that one finds in hospitals,
for the little guy
who can never seem to find them
when he needs them.
Paul reads "Stealing Band-Aids from Hospitals":
Subscribe to Channel Five-Two for first view of new videos.
Paul confesses: "I always steal a few Band-Aids when I'm waiting for the doctor to come. The longer he makes me wait, the more Band-Aids I steal. It's my little addiction, my little vindictive kleptocompulsion, which I engage in all alone in the little examining room, and which this poem examines and tries to justify."
Monday, January 28, 2013
Paul Hostovsky
THROWING SNOWBALLS AT CARS
From our little redoubt
up on the hill
we lobbed our redoubtable
arsenal of white
handcrafted ordnance
one by one over the hedges
and listened
for the gratifying
thunk
on the roofs and hoods of the passing
innocents
who mostly just kept trundling dumbly
along
through the purely perfect-for-packing
driven snow. But once
an innocent in a beat-up pickup
stopped. And stayed there. Idling. Fuming.
We froze, our fingers and toes
twitching. Our hearts racing. Our noses
running. Finally he drove off, but he doubled
back around, and routed our little
redoubt. And there's no doubt
he would have beaten the shit out of us
if he caught any of us—
but we dispersed
like a burst snowball ourselves,
and melted into the neighborhood
like so many scared shitless
snowflakes, no two of us exactly
repentant.
Paul reads "Throwing Snowballs at Cars":
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Paul confesses: "There was a lot of physics involved with this particular favorite juvenile pastime or crime. Things like the nature of free-falling bodies, acceleration of gravity, velocity, mass, inertial frame of reference. But we didn't have the words for that back then, so it didn't make it into the poem."
PAUL HOSTOVSKY is the author of four books of poetry, most recently Hurt Into Beauty (2012, FutureCycle Press). His poems have won a Pushcart Prize and been featured on Poetry Daily, Verse Daily, and Best of the Net 2008 and 2009. Garrison Keillor has read Paul's poems on The Writer's Almanac seven times. To read more of his work, visit him at www.paulhostovsky.com
From our little redoubt
up on the hill
we lobbed our redoubtable
arsenal of white
handcrafted ordnance
one by one over the hedges
and listened
for the gratifying
thunk
on the roofs and hoods of the passing
innocents
who mostly just kept trundling dumbly
along
through the purely perfect-for-packing
driven snow. But once
an innocent in a beat-up pickup
stopped. And stayed there. Idling. Fuming.
We froze, our fingers and toes
twitching. Our hearts racing. Our noses
running. Finally he drove off, but he doubled
back around, and routed our little
redoubt. And there's no doubt
he would have beaten the shit out of us
if he caught any of us—
but we dispersed
like a burst snowball ourselves,
and melted into the neighborhood
like so many scared shitless
snowflakes, no two of us exactly
repentant.
Paul reads "Throwing Snowballs at Cars":
Subscribe to Channel Five-Two for first view of new videos.
Paul confesses: "There was a lot of physics involved with this particular favorite juvenile pastime or crime. Things like the nature of free-falling bodies, acceleration of gravity, velocity, mass, inertial frame of reference. But we didn't have the words for that back then, so it didn't make it into the poem."
Monday, November 5, 2012
Paul Hostovsky
FEELING SORRY FOR THE PRESIDENTS
I remember Nixon getting up in front of
my mother and father in 1974
and looking so earnest and guilty
that you had to feel sorry for the guy—I mean
I did. I didn't know what he'd done but
whatever it was, I knew my parents wouldn't
forgive him for it any time soon.
I could tell by the way they clicked
the TV off and left the room that Nixon
was grounded for life if my parents
had anything to say about it. I remember
turning the TV back on and feeling
closer to Nixon then, for he reminded me
a little of myself. But now, years later, with Nixon
gone and my parents gone and George W.
Bush getting up on TV in front of everyone
and not telling the truth, he looks so
earnest and guilty and he doesn't have
a good vocabulary either—I bet he never
reads books just for the pleasure
of reading them—that I can't help feeling
sorry for the guy. I mean everybody's mad at him
for the big mess he made, and there he stands
in the middle of that mess, with all the bodies
piling up—all the arms and legs and heads—
and he has to say something but he can't
say what he has to say. He can't say it.
Paul reads "Feeling Sorry for the Presidents":
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Paul confesses: "Some lies are crimes. Other lies are, well, poems. Sometimes a lie sounds so good we can't resist telling it. Children and presidents have this in common. I guess we've all experienced making something up out of nothing, then watching it take on a life of its own. Some have gone to prison for that. Others have won prizes."
PAUL HOSTOVSKY is the author of four books of poetry, most recently Hurt Into Beauty (2012, FutureCycle Press). His poems have won a Pushcart Prize and been featured on Poetry Daily, Verse Daily, and Best of the Net 2008 and 2009. Garrison Keillor has read Paul's poems on The Writer's Almanac seven times. To read more of his work, visit him at www.paulhostovsky.com
I remember Nixon getting up in front of
my mother and father in 1974
and looking so earnest and guilty
that you had to feel sorry for the guy—I mean
I did. I didn't know what he'd done but
whatever it was, I knew my parents wouldn't
forgive him for it any time soon.
I could tell by the way they clicked
the TV off and left the room that Nixon
was grounded for life if my parents
had anything to say about it. I remember
turning the TV back on and feeling
closer to Nixon then, for he reminded me
a little of myself. But now, years later, with Nixon
gone and my parents gone and George W.
Bush getting up on TV in front of everyone
and not telling the truth, he looks so
earnest and guilty and he doesn't have
a good vocabulary either—I bet he never
reads books just for the pleasure
of reading them—that I can't help feeling
sorry for the guy. I mean everybody's mad at him
for the big mess he made, and there he stands
in the middle of that mess, with all the bodies
piling up—all the arms and legs and heads—
and he has to say something but he can't
say what he has to say. He can't say it.
Paul reads "Feeling Sorry for the Presidents":
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Paul confesses: "Some lies are crimes. Other lies are, well, poems. Sometimes a lie sounds so good we can't resist telling it. Children and presidents have this in common. I guess we've all experienced making something up out of nothing, then watching it take on a life of its own. Some have gone to prison for that. Others have won prizes."
Monday, April 23, 2012
Paul Hostovsky
CONFESSIONAL POEM
People say they love my honesty, but honestly,
I'm a liar and a thief. I would steal your mother
and help you look for her. What was she wearing?
Large breasts or small? Truly, I have a prurient
bent. I sometimes incline towards pure prurience.
But at least I'm honest about it. I am up front
at the adult movie theater. I'm in the first row
where there's nothing between me and these
fine actors, some of whom are really very fine—
I mean they're so convincing, I believe they are
in love. I believe I am in love. I mean that's how
good they are. But me, I'm not a good person. I would
pocket your twenty if I found it on the floor of
your car. I would borrow your car without asking you.
I would steal your line and put it in my poem without
crediting you. I would sleep with your mother
if she were good looking enough and willing. Honestly,
I am not an honest person and this poem is not
an honest poem. It expresses feelings and beliefs that
I have never felt or entertained. It's a sad day when
someone like you lets someone like me get away
with something like this. What were you thinking?
Paul reads "Confessional Poem":
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Paul confesses: "It's true. It's a paradox. I'm very honest, but I lie a lot. And I steal here and there. 'Tell the truth but tell it slant.' I'm monogamous, diffident and very shy. But I'm also a horny old bastard and a dirty old man."
PAUL HOSTOVSKY is the author of three books of poetry and seven poetry chapbooks. His poems have won a Pushcart Prize and been featured on Poetry Daily, Verse Daily, The Writer's Almanac, and Best of the Net. To read more of his work, visit him at: www.paulhostovsky.com.
People say they love my honesty, but honestly,
I'm a liar and a thief. I would steal your mother
and help you look for her. What was she wearing?
Large breasts or small? Truly, I have a prurient
bent. I sometimes incline towards pure prurience.
But at least I'm honest about it. I am up front
at the adult movie theater. I'm in the first row
where there's nothing between me and these
fine actors, some of whom are really very fine—
I mean they're so convincing, I believe they are
in love. I believe I am in love. I mean that's how
good they are. But me, I'm not a good person. I would
pocket your twenty if I found it on the floor of
your car. I would borrow your car without asking you.
I would steal your line and put it in my poem without
crediting you. I would sleep with your mother
if she were good looking enough and willing. Honestly,
I am not an honest person and this poem is not
an honest poem. It expresses feelings and beliefs that
I have never felt or entertained. It's a sad day when
someone like you lets someone like me get away
with something like this. What were you thinking?
Paul reads "Confessional Poem":
Subscribe to Channel Five-Two for first view of new videos.
Paul confesses: "It's true. It's a paradox. I'm very honest, but I lie a lot. And I steal here and there. 'Tell the truth but tell it slant.' I'm monogamous, diffident and very shy. But I'm also a horny old bastard and a dirty old man."
Friday, April 20, 2012
30 Days of The 5-2 - Day 20 - Tennessee WordSmith
Multi-genre author and historian Troy D. Smith discusses "My Visit to the Gardner Museum" by Paul Hostovsky.
See the full 30 Days of The 5-2 schedule.
See the full 30 Days of The 5-2 schedule.
Monday, November 14, 2011
Paul Hostovsky
MY VISIT TO THE GARDNER MUSEUM
Isabella Stewart Gardner had a lot of shit,
a lot of very old and beautiful shit
from all over the world, going all the way back to
the Egyptian sarcophagi, which look a lot like bathtubs
though really they're coffins. A whole lot of dead
shit in this museum, is what I'm thinking
to myself, not sharing that thought with the lovely
young woman who brought me here on our second date.
To share the world with the world, Isabella Gardner
built her eponymous museum in the Boston Fenway
in 1898. Now, a hundred and ten years later,
me and Celia are walking through its galleries, not touching
because it's only our second date. And I think it’s obscene
the way she accumulated all this shit and shipped it
back to Boston. And I think it's exactly what’s wrong
with America, the way we keep appropriating
shit that doesn’t belong to us, buying it up and
calling it ours. But I don't tell Celia that because I want
to hold her hand now, which is presently pointing up
at an enormous gilt frame with no painting in it,
her sweet inquiring voice asking the well-ironed
museum guard standing next to it at attention: What
is this? And he tells us this is the Rembrandt
that was stolen a few years back, along with the Vermeers
and other masterpieces cut right out
of their frames, the way poachers cut the valuable
part of the animal right out of the animal,
leaving the bloody carcass behind for the world
to stare at aghast and brokenhearted. And I think
this is by far the most interesting thing in the museum,
though I don't tell Celia that, her hand in mine now
as we listen together to the museum guard's harrowing tale
of the enemies of art breaking into Isabella's
rooms, and ripping the Dutch masters right out. Like a
rape, she gasps, squeezing my hand tighter. That's when I
reach for her other hand, which she gives to me now,
so now we're standing face to face, just inches
away from each other's flesh-colored
flesh, which is making the museum guard very
uncomfortable. And he looks away. And I steal a kiss
from Celia. And then I cop a feel of Rubens.
Gerald So reads "My Visit to the Gardner Museum":
Subscribe to Channel Five-Two for first view of new videos.
Paul confesses: We were walking around this famous museum full of famous art from all over the world, and there were lots of museum guards whose job it was to make sure you didn't touch. But I wanted to touch. Bad. And they've left the empty frames up on the walls where the infamous art thieves cut the canvasses right out in the infamous art theft. Infamy. Calumny. In flagrante delicto...
PAUL HOSTOVSKY is the author of three books of poetry, Bending the Notes (2008), Dear Truth (2009), and A Little in Love a Lot (2011). His poems have won a Pushcart Prize and been featured on Poetry Daily, Verse Daily, The Writer's Almanac, and Best of the Net 2008 and 2009. To read more of his work, visit his website: www.paulhostovsky.com.
Isabella Stewart Gardner had a lot of shit,
a lot of very old and beautiful shit
from all over the world, going all the way back to
the Egyptian sarcophagi, which look a lot like bathtubs
though really they're coffins. A whole lot of dead
shit in this museum, is what I'm thinking
to myself, not sharing that thought with the lovely
young woman who brought me here on our second date.
To share the world with the world, Isabella Gardner
built her eponymous museum in the Boston Fenway
in 1898. Now, a hundred and ten years later,
me and Celia are walking through its galleries, not touching
because it's only our second date. And I think it’s obscene
the way she accumulated all this shit and shipped it
back to Boston. And I think it's exactly what’s wrong
with America, the way we keep appropriating
shit that doesn’t belong to us, buying it up and
calling it ours. But I don't tell Celia that because I want
to hold her hand now, which is presently pointing up
at an enormous gilt frame with no painting in it,
her sweet inquiring voice asking the well-ironed
museum guard standing next to it at attention: What
is this? And he tells us this is the Rembrandt
that was stolen a few years back, along with the Vermeers
and other masterpieces cut right out
of their frames, the way poachers cut the valuable
part of the animal right out of the animal,
leaving the bloody carcass behind for the world
to stare at aghast and brokenhearted. And I think
this is by far the most interesting thing in the museum,
though I don't tell Celia that, her hand in mine now
as we listen together to the museum guard's harrowing tale
of the enemies of art breaking into Isabella's
rooms, and ripping the Dutch masters right out. Like a
rape, she gasps, squeezing my hand tighter. That's when I
reach for her other hand, which she gives to me now,
so now we're standing face to face, just inches
away from each other's flesh-colored
flesh, which is making the museum guard very
uncomfortable. And he looks away. And I steal a kiss
from Celia. And then I cop a feel of Rubens.
Gerald So reads "My Visit to the Gardner Museum":
Subscribe to Channel Five-Two for first view of new videos.
Paul confesses: We were walking around this famous museum full of famous art from all over the world, and there were lots of museum guards whose job it was to make sure you didn't touch. But I wanted to touch. Bad. And they've left the empty frames up on the walls where the infamous art thieves cut the canvasses right out in the infamous art theft. Infamy. Calumny. In flagrante delicto...
PAUL HOSTOVSKY is the author of three books of poetry, Bending the Notes (2008), Dear Truth (2009), and A Little in Love a Lot (2011). His poems have won a Pushcart Prize and been featured on Poetry Daily, Verse Daily, The Writer's Almanac, and Best of the Net 2008 and 2009. To read more of his work, visit his website: www.paulhostovsky.com.
Friday, September 10, 2010
Paul Hostovsky
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