poetryrepairs #205 14.10:116
VERNON WARING : The Green-Eyed Monster
PAUL HOSTOVSKY : Unlikely Loves: The Self
PAUL HOSTOVSKY : The Place of Literature
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VERNON WARING
The Green-Eyed Monster
She was always angry when any woman looked him over, checked him out. Possessive and jealous, short- tempered and mean spirited, she was a bitch. Always poking at him, second-guessing him, herá bold dark eyes glaring at the least little slight. And herá tongue knew no limits.áSheá would dress him down right there in front of anyone, ridiculingá him, embarrassing him, making him an obvious target of her fury. She would wait for him by the window at night, her sleepy cat nestled on her lap, an aromatic stew or soup or casserole wafting through the tidy city row house they shared. He knew if he lived there much longer he'd end up with his hands wrapped around her throat or maybe he'd just slip some antifreeze in her drink or he could just walk in one night and announce that he finally found the one true love of his life. No bloody knives, no smoking guns, just words aimed directly at the heart.

poetryrepairs #205 14.10:116

All the fine arts are species of poetry--Samuel Taylor Coleridge

poetry repairs your heart
even as it splits it open.
VIRGINIA WOOLF
The Art of Reading



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PAUL HOSTOVSKY
Unlikely Loves: The Self
It was a Buddhist lecture on Unlikely Loves: The Self. There must have been fifty people in that room with the eight Vicissitudes, six Stages of Metta, four Noble Truths, three Kinds of Suffering and two ceiling fans spinning, spinning. She was sitting on the other side of the room, touching herself. I couldn't help staring. She was twisting a strand of her long hair round her fingers absent-mindedly, listening to the speaker, holding it up to her lips, sniffing it, tasting it, eyeing it doubtfully, then letting it goŚ She caressed her cheek, her forehead, the palm of her hand cupped her chin, fingers drumming. It was a pensive attitude lasting only a moment, for her hands grew restless again, and she started hugging herself, her left hand massaging her right shoulder, her right hand making excursions to the hip, belly, armpit where it moored itself with a thumb camped out on the small hillock of her left breast. I couldn't help wondering if she could feel my eyes on her body the way I could feel her hands on her body on mine. "Don't attach to anything as me or mine," the Buddhist speaker who was Jewish before he was Buddhist was saying, "because attachment is the second arrow." That's when I realized I had missed what the first arrow was. And then, as in a dream, I was trying to raise one of my hands lying in my lap like two dead birds, belly-up, to ask.

poetryrepairs #205 14.10:116

I have many things to write unto you but
I will not write with pen and ink
--JOHN the theologian

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PAUL HOSTOVSKY The Place of Literature
The Place of Literature
Mr. Gordon was perhaps a little tipsy at the awards ceremony, perhaps a little scornful of the football coach's ode to yardage, the basketball coach's paeons to the MVPs, the music teacher's touting her flautist, the science teacher his scion of Einstein. So when Mr. Gordon got up to give the literary magazine award to me, he lurched a little drunkenly, swayed a little imperceptibly, steeply rocking in his moment on stage. Not to be outdone, he said in his opinion I was probably the greatest poet writing in English anywhere todayŚ and a gasp went up from the high school auditorium, then murmurs of admiration and disbelief and mutiny spread through the audience as I rose to accept Mr. Gordon's slightly exaggerated handshake. Then he kissed me on the mouth, and raised my hand above my head in the manner of referees and prizefighters, grinning glaringly over at the football coach, and nodding trochaically.


poetryrepairs #205 14.10:116

Poetry endangers the established order
of the soul - Plato

REPAIR: resort, frequent or habitual going; concourse or confluence of people at or in a place; making one's way; to go, betake oneself, to arrive; return to a place; to dwell; to recover, heal, or cure; to renew; to fix to original condition. -- O.E.D.



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VERNON WARING : The Green-Eyed Monster
PAUL HOSTOVSKY : Unlikely Loves: The Self
PAUL HOSTOVSKY : The Place of Literature

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