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Is That What That Is
In his ninth full-length collection, Paul Hostovsky serves up his usual unusual fare of graceful, musical, accessible language sauced with humor and tenderness in poems about love and sex, exes and whys, lost socks, lost erections, lost youth, deaf people and dentists and kazoos—with lots of ars poeticas sprinkled throughout and a philosophical cavy hopping into more than a couple of poems. These poems consistently extract from the everyday and ordinary experiences of our lives a kind of Holy Instant of joy, of insight, of wonder, and a sort of redemptive humor that leaves us somehow sadder and wiser AND happier the morrow morn. George Bilgere says of this new collection: “Such a pleasure. These poems knocked my socks off. Those other reliable reporters from the battlefield of being middle-aged in America—the Hoaglands and Hallidays, the Collinses and Padgetts—should step aside and make way for Hostovsky!”
88 pages, Paperback
First published July 1, 2017
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Displaying 1 of 1 review
March 14, 2018
We are the publisher, so all of our authors get five stars from us. Excerpts:
OUT OF PLACE
When I see my dentist
in his baseball cap and sneakers
walking down the street like a regular guy
without a probe or excavator
or tiny round mirror in his hand,
no rubber gloves, no hygienist
sitting attentively across from him
anticipating his needs and my needs,
no tasteful prints on the wall,
no Muzak in the ceiling,
no adjustable overhead light—
just the sun shining down on both of us,
and him too far away for me to see
all the little unruly tongues
of his nose hairs sticking out—I don’t
recognize him at first,
striding through the world all alone like that
as if he weren’t my dentist, as if
he didn’t belong in my dentist’s office,
as if he had a life outside
my head. That’s when he tilts his head
and looks at me askance as if
I were sitting there in his dentist’s chair,
and then he gives me a smile that says
he not only recognizes me,
but he recognizes himself inside
my head, where I’ve been keeping him
prisoner. And he raises a deft hand
and lets himself out
with a wave.
REPAIR
My wife’s ex is up on the roof
repointing our chimney.
I can hear him walking around up there
as I lie here in bed thinking
about the symbolism. It feels
a little like he’s walking on my grave
and a little like I’m sleeping in his. “He’s very
handy,” said my wife. “He can fix
anything.” I suppose most men
would find it too emasculating
to hire their wife’s ex-husband
as a handyman. But I am not
most men. And I am not
the least bit handy. As for their marriage,
that was something he couldn’t
fix, not after he cheated on her.
And now the bricks are flying
outside my window, bits of mortar
and flashing raining down as he chisels
them loose. My wife is getting
out of the shower. I can hear her
humming to herself in there. Soon
she will stroll into our bedroom with
a towel around her head, her magnificent
nipples shining and a grave
mischief in her eyes as she begins
making love to me all morning
beneath the hammering blows.
OUT OF PLACE
When I see my dentist
in his baseball cap and sneakers
walking down the street like a regular guy
without a probe or excavator
or tiny round mirror in his hand,
no rubber gloves, no hygienist
sitting attentively across from him
anticipating his needs and my needs,
no tasteful prints on the wall,
no Muzak in the ceiling,
no adjustable overhead light—
just the sun shining down on both of us,
and him too far away for me to see
all the little unruly tongues
of his nose hairs sticking out—I don’t
recognize him at first,
striding through the world all alone like that
as if he weren’t my dentist, as if
he didn’t belong in my dentist’s office,
as if he had a life outside
my head. That’s when he tilts his head
and looks at me askance as if
I were sitting there in his dentist’s chair,
and then he gives me a smile that says
he not only recognizes me,
but he recognizes himself inside
my head, where I’ve been keeping him
prisoner. And he raises a deft hand
and lets himself out
with a wave.
REPAIR
My wife’s ex is up on the roof
repointing our chimney.
I can hear him walking around up there
as I lie here in bed thinking
about the symbolism. It feels
a little like he’s walking on my grave
and a little like I’m sleeping in his. “He’s very
handy,” said my wife. “He can fix
anything.” I suppose most men
would find it too emasculating
to hire their wife’s ex-husband
as a handyman. But I am not
most men. And I am not
the least bit handy. As for their marriage,
that was something he couldn’t
fix, not after he cheated on her.
And now the bricks are flying
outside my window, bits of mortar
and flashing raining down as he chisels
them loose. My wife is getting
out of the shower. I can hear her
humming to herself in there. Soon
she will stroll into our bedroom with
a towel around her head, her magnificent
nipples shining and a grave
mischief in her eyes as she begins
making love to me all morning
beneath the hammering blows.
Displaying 1 of 1 review