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Hothouse
Karyna MyGlynn takes readers on tour through the half-haunted house of the contemporary American psyche with wit, whimsy, and candid confession. Disappointing lovers surface in the bedroom; in the bathroom, "the drained tub ticks with mollusks & lobsters;" revenge fantasies and death lurk in the basement where they rightly belong. With lush imagery and au courant asides, Hothouse surprises and delights. Karyna McGlynn is the author of I Have to Go Back to 1994 and Kill a Girl and three chapbooks. She is currently a Visiting Assistant Professor of Creative Writing and Translation at Oberlin College.
- GenresPoetryNonfiction
83 pages, Paperback
First published June 13, 2017
5 people are currently reading
160 people want to read
About the author
Karyna McGlynn
13 books79 followersKaryna McGlynn is the author of Hothouse (Sarabande Books 2017), I Have to Go Back to 1994 and Kill a Girl (Sarabande Books 2009), and several chapbooks. Her poems have recently appeared in The Kenyon Review, Ploughshares, Black Warrior Review, Ninth Letter, Georgia Review, Witness, and The Academy of American Poet’s Poem-A-Day. Karyna holds an MFA in Poetry from the University of Michigan, and earned her PhD in Literature and Creative Writing from the University of Houston where she served as Managing Editor for Gulf Coast. Her honors include the Verlaine Prize, the Kathryn A. Morton Prize, the Hopwood Award, and the Diane Middlebrook Fellowship in Poetry at the University of Wisconsin. She is currently a Visiting Assistant Professor at Oberlin College, where she teaches poetry, translation, and humor writing. Find her online at www.karynamcglynn.com.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 34 reviews
January 28, 2022
The structure of feelings through a house was compelling, but none of the individual pieces really stood out or grabbed me in any particular way.
November 15, 2023
...she falls face first into dark -- borne down
through an underworld of leather and bedsprings.
from the poem
BIG GAME TROPHY RETURN FANTASY P16
Karyna McGlynn is one smart cookie, chocolate chip and nuts with sprinkles on the top. I imagine that she doesn't need to refer to a dictionary or a thesaurus because she memorized those in elementary school. I would not be surprised to find that she cut up old books and placed words in a silk bag for random selection. This would apply especially to the fanciful titles which may mean something special to the author.
...******....****.....I asked
can you hear my heart? I needed
to know it was there.
from the poem
Broken Bottle of Vanilla Fields p14
Alas, for me, the resonance stops there. KMG is a competent and abundantly imaginative poet.
There were many evocative images and phrases, only a few poems that I liked in their entirety.
I twirl over the surface of the world as if
it's an even plane of polished pine.
No loose boards. No rusty nails.
from the poem First- Aid Kit p64
through an underworld of leather and bedsprings.
from the poem
BIG GAME TROPHY RETURN FANTASY P16
Karyna McGlynn is one smart cookie, chocolate chip and nuts with sprinkles on the top. I imagine that she doesn't need to refer to a dictionary or a thesaurus because she memorized those in elementary school. I would not be surprised to find that she cut up old books and placed words in a silk bag for random selection. This would apply especially to the fanciful titles which may mean something special to the author.
...******....****.....I asked
can you hear my heart? I needed
to know it was there.
from the poem
Broken Bottle of Vanilla Fields p14
Alas, for me, the resonance stops there. KMG is a competent and abundantly imaginative poet.
There were many evocative images and phrases, only a few poems that I liked in their entirety.
I twirl over the surface of the world as if
it's an even plane of polished pine.
No loose boards. No rusty nails.
from the poem First- Aid Kit p64
May 4, 2018
Karyna McGlynn poetry here is youthful, lustful, but sometimes hurt by the slightly too clever or even a bit twee. The organizational structure thematically reigns in what could easily be an otherwise unwieldy collection of poems and her personality shines through both the soliloquies and the smutty detours. Yet sometimes the Devil and the lost blazers seem to be a bit too manic, and the unexpectedness of the poems becomes almost too performative and thus, expected. It's still a solid collection through and very fun.
October 11, 2023
this collection:
- sneaks up behind you in an alley
- knifes you
- pours salt in the wound
and i LOVE IT.
broken bottle of vanilla fields
a block away, the football stadium
floodlit like the mothership, soaking up
the pitchy dregs of friday night, calling all
flying insects home. he kissed me.
there was no heat in it. only the mouth
of a small goldfish swallowing
a smaller goldfish. when he touched me
down there, he expected combustion.
but i was not his dad's red bronco - idle,
looping i smell sex and candy here.
i was a fat wildflower unstapled
from the pop-up field. i lay very still
and let him strive against me, the grass
pricking. plasticine. i asked,
can you hear my heart? i needed
to know it was there. shh, he breathed.
he looked like a man building his house
on the slope of some dormant volcano.
trust me, he said. a drumbeat, and then:
the drill teams of travis county gave
a shallow, singular grunt on my behalf,
high-kicking their white sequin cowgirl hats,
lunging forward into the splits.
big game trophy return fantasy
it's not quite thanksgiving. just shy. the uncles stow her
in the hunters' bunkhouse. no place for a girl. from bed,
she gazes at the guns on high racks, the empty beer cans,
field & stream, hustler, all the enormous animal heads.
trophies open & close their glass eyes. a little steam.
the wildebeest & water buffalo step from wood paneling.
simply, as if from a pond. they shake sawdust
luxuriously from their beards, trampling the guest sheets,
buckling the thin mattress. her foldout couch retracts
& from this claptrap rises a gamey smell: wet flannel,
old boots, defrosting meat. a girl & her reindeer nightgown
swallowed whole. she falls face-first into dark- borne down
through an underworld of leather & bedsprings.
the lopsided beasts pour forth: bok, boa, kudu, rhino.
they scratch & sniff her future: an opening in the ice,
a truck overturning. this girl thing warming their bodies.
this small hunter neither snuffed nor comforted.
thanksgiving: an electric flash, the smell of frying venison,
the knife's path along its strop. the deep freeze hums.
they stiffen, backboard ruff around their necks.
now the screen door opens: it's time to be dead again.
blue-eyed boyfriends
every blue-eyed boyfriend lining up
to look at me all at once: a firing squad
of looking, my head in one of those
big paper cones to keep a bitch
from biting her wounds, hackles up
against the levee, hemmed by the bayou.
all my blue-eyed boyfriends swaying
silent as spikerush, staring me down.
some without socks, grown stockier,
self-effacing, shit-faced. doesn't matter.
they just want to see me see them.
their eyes- some wet, shallow, shiny
as pie pans left in the rain, some pure
pupil, so bottomless-inkwell i can't see
the blue until it smudges my thumb.
some for a second, like looking through
the sunroof between tall buildings.
others so light they look blighted
by lime, bleached of gravity. what now?
i throw nickels at them in remuneration.
they ping off the pylons or platt
tail-up onto the sludge of the bayou.
all my ammunition gone, i finally get it.
i take out my make-up mirror:
the eye of the storm, bloodshot,
rimmed in blue and contraflow.
the forecast funnels in: i know, i know.
- sneaks up behind you in an alley
- knifes you
- pours salt in the wound
and i LOVE IT.
broken bottle of vanilla fields
a block away, the football stadium
floodlit like the mothership, soaking up
the pitchy dregs of friday night, calling all
flying insects home. he kissed me.
there was no heat in it. only the mouth
of a small goldfish swallowing
a smaller goldfish. when he touched me
down there, he expected combustion.
but i was not his dad's red bronco - idle,
looping i smell sex and candy here.
i was a fat wildflower unstapled
from the pop-up field. i lay very still
and let him strive against me, the grass
pricking. plasticine. i asked,
can you hear my heart? i needed
to know it was there. shh, he breathed.
he looked like a man building his house
on the slope of some dormant volcano.
trust me, he said. a drumbeat, and then:
the drill teams of travis county gave
a shallow, singular grunt on my behalf,
high-kicking their white sequin cowgirl hats,
lunging forward into the splits.
big game trophy return fantasy
it's not quite thanksgiving. just shy. the uncles stow her
in the hunters' bunkhouse. no place for a girl. from bed,
she gazes at the guns on high racks, the empty beer cans,
field & stream, hustler, all the enormous animal heads.
trophies open & close their glass eyes. a little steam.
the wildebeest & water buffalo step from wood paneling.
simply, as if from a pond. they shake sawdust
luxuriously from their beards, trampling the guest sheets,
buckling the thin mattress. her foldout couch retracts
& from this claptrap rises a gamey smell: wet flannel,
old boots, defrosting meat. a girl & her reindeer nightgown
swallowed whole. she falls face-first into dark- borne down
through an underworld of leather & bedsprings.
the lopsided beasts pour forth: bok, boa, kudu, rhino.
they scratch & sniff her future: an opening in the ice,
a truck overturning. this girl thing warming their bodies.
this small hunter neither snuffed nor comforted.
thanksgiving: an electric flash, the smell of frying venison,
the knife's path along its strop. the deep freeze hums.
they stiffen, backboard ruff around their necks.
now the screen door opens: it's time to be dead again.
blue-eyed boyfriends
every blue-eyed boyfriend lining up
to look at me all at once: a firing squad
of looking, my head in one of those
big paper cones to keep a bitch
from biting her wounds, hackles up
against the levee, hemmed by the bayou.
all my blue-eyed boyfriends swaying
silent as spikerush, staring me down.
some without socks, grown stockier,
self-effacing, shit-faced. doesn't matter.
they just want to see me see them.
their eyes- some wet, shallow, shiny
as pie pans left in the rain, some pure
pupil, so bottomless-inkwell i can't see
the blue until it smudges my thumb.
some for a second, like looking through
the sunroof between tall buildings.
others so light they look blighted
by lime, bleached of gravity. what now?
i throw nickels at them in remuneration.
they ping off the pylons or platt
tail-up onto the sludge of the bayou.
all my ammunition gone, i finally get it.
i take out my make-up mirror:
the eye of the storm, bloodshot,
rimmed in blue and contraflow.
the forecast funnels in: i know, i know.
April 13, 2023
Loved this collection of poems!
August 15, 2022
“Of All the Dead People I Know” has been one of my favorite poems for a long time, because of the wonderful line “We need a new imagination when it comes to death,” but I had never read it in context of her entire collection. McGlynn’s voice is bold and vulnerable, direct and playful, and altogether exhilarating. And I love how these poems are grouped, taking us through the bedroom, library, parlour, bathroom, wet bar, and basement moments of her life. It was a delight.
June 27, 2019
I remember everyone telling me I needed to read "I Need to Go Back to 1994," but somehow didn't hear as much about this book. But I really liked it.
The poems here are mostly centered around sex, and McGlynn develops a persona to front these poems, someone who is promiscuous and horny but who also has a particular verbal facility, to turn phrases, to bend and reconnect them in striking and interesting ways. There are occasionally surreal insertions, where the expected word will be disrupted by something really out of nowhere, but mostly we stay in the realm of discourse, where the language shifts are between registers and idioms rather than from sense to nonsense.
The weirdness that kind of threw me in this collection happened in the fourth section where some of the details from earlier poems start to accumulate and McGlynn's persona starts to feel like the poet herself, climaxing in the shocking recognition that McGlynn is pregnant.... Of course the persona and the poet were always connected, but this collapsing of what distance there was really changed my sense of what I was reading, from performance to biography. And I don't think this totally worked for me; it distracted me from language as a flight to language as a record, and well, I didn't enjoy that as much. I mention it because it struck me forcefully, but not so much I didn't really like and admire a lot of what these poems are doing.
The poems here are mostly centered around sex, and McGlynn develops a persona to front these poems, someone who is promiscuous and horny but who also has a particular verbal facility, to turn phrases, to bend and reconnect them in striking and interesting ways. There are occasionally surreal insertions, where the expected word will be disrupted by something really out of nowhere, but mostly we stay in the realm of discourse, where the language shifts are between registers and idioms rather than from sense to nonsense.
The weirdness that kind of threw me in this collection happened in the fourth section where some of the details from earlier poems start to accumulate and McGlynn's persona starts to feel like the poet herself, climaxing in the shocking recognition that McGlynn is pregnant.... Of course the persona and the poet were always connected, but this collapsing of what distance there was really changed my sense of what I was reading, from performance to biography. And I don't think this totally worked for me; it distracted me from language as a flight to language as a record, and well, I didn't enjoy that as much. I mention it because it struck me forcefully, but not so much I didn't really like and admire a lot of what these poems are doing.
November 18, 2018
More people should be reading this.
There is something so spectacular about Karyna's poetry. It's macabre but only because we can relate to the stories that are meant to emphasize the things that haunt us. From our past, present and future. Everyone has opinion about our limbs and certain words spring to our lips when we think of legs, hands, heads, just as we see situations arise automatically when we hear words like parlor, basement and library. The emphasis of the structure of a house in this collection is connected to the structure of our bodies, and the haunting of the house is the haunting of our bodies. This was an incredible collection full of poems that felt real. None of the teenage angst that seems to infiltrate poetry on the market can be found here. Real feelings, actual structure and creative genius have obviously been a factor for the author and I really appreciated that.
There is something so spectacular about Karyna's poetry. It's macabre but only because we can relate to the stories that are meant to emphasize the things that haunt us. From our past, present and future. Everyone has opinion about our limbs and certain words spring to our lips when we think of legs, hands, heads, just as we see situations arise automatically when we hear words like parlor, basement and library. The emphasis of the structure of a house in this collection is connected to the structure of our bodies, and the haunting of the house is the haunting of our bodies. This was an incredible collection full of poems that felt real. None of the teenage angst that seems to infiltrate poetry on the market can be found here. Real feelings, actual structure and creative genius have obviously been a factor for the author and I really appreciated that.
November 25, 2017
2.5 stars
Idk, I didn't hate it, I just didn't love it. I don't think this collection was for me. I appreciated the humor and a few individual poems overall, but it was a bit too "edgy" for my tastes. I could see that it was technically good, but they poems didn't leave much of an impression. The "Library" section was the strongest for me, and that's where most of my favorite poems were, probably because they were the least frank and down to earth (not that's something I normally require of the poetry I enjoy, it just happened to scratch the itch this time).
I'm just not having real great luck with my poetry book choices the past few weeks. Sigh.
Idk, I didn't hate it, I just didn't love it. I don't think this collection was for me. I appreciated the humor and a few individual poems overall, but it was a bit too "edgy" for my tastes. I could see that it was technically good, but they poems didn't leave much of an impression. The "Library" section was the strongest for me, and that's where most of my favorite poems were, probably because they were the least frank and down to earth (not that's something I normally require of the poetry I enjoy, it just happened to scratch the itch this time).
I'm just not having real great luck with my poetry book choices the past few weeks. Sigh.
October 25, 2017
Favorites:
"Self-Portrait as Erotic Thriller"
"Last Girl on the Floor"
"Costumes Required"
His freshest ex-girlfriend is a 30-year-old stripper who works
at Neiman Marcus. She has an MBA. Her name is Aubrey.
- "Russel Says Everybody Is Aubrey"
Jealousy is a kind of arthritis.
- "What Happens in 1918 Won't Stay in 1918"
He told me my eyes sucked up
all the oxygen in the room
but didn't use that breath to express anything
- "Ouvrir"
"Men like red," says my manicurist. It's true.
Red fingernails still slay them like it's 1942.
- "Hit It"
"Self-Portrait as Erotic Thriller"
"Last Girl on the Floor"
"Costumes Required"
His freshest ex-girlfriend is a 30-year-old stripper who works
at Neiman Marcus. She has an MBA. Her name is Aubrey.
- "Russel Says Everybody Is Aubrey"
Jealousy is a kind of arthritis.
- "What Happens in 1918 Won't Stay in 1918"
He told me my eyes sucked up
all the oxygen in the room
but didn't use that breath to express anything
- "Ouvrir"
"Men like red," says my manicurist. It's true.
Red fingernails still slay them like it's 1942.
- "Hit It"
January 19, 2026
Karyna McGlynn can definitely write but all of these poems just fell short for me.
They all felt like first drafts you vomit into your notebook and then vigorously edit...but without the editing part. They all read like the idea of the poem and what made it onto the page didn't match up, if I was in her head knowing what she meant these poems to be I would have enjoyed it much more but I'm not and so this collection reads unfinished and confused.
I do want to read more from this author because she is a good writer, this collection just lacked a lot for me.
They all felt like first drafts you vomit into your notebook and then vigorously edit...but without the editing part. They all read like the idea of the poem and what made it onto the page didn't match up, if I was in her head knowing what she meant these poems to be I would have enjoyed it much more but I'm not and so this collection reads unfinished and confused.
I do want to read more from this author because she is a good writer, this collection just lacked a lot for me.
April 2, 2023
McGlynn offers up slices of her life in a way that reminds me of a stranger three drinks in at an airport bar. Reading this collection is like unintentionally peeking into a neighbor’s house through a gap in the curtains and seeing them naked. There’s something voyeuristic about the format and the poems themselves, many of them taking on a whispered confessional tone. Some of these hit hard for me while others were a miss.
May 11, 2017
Maybe I'm biased because I was so in love with McGlynn's weirdness in "I Have to Go Back to 1994 and Kill a Girl," but "Hothouse" left me missing the gross lyricism of her previous work. Though perhaps more candid and clever, "Hothouse" seemed all flash, crushing its subtler poems. I do love the organizing "house" structure and of course, when McGlynn hits, she kills.
February 22, 2020
A frantic, frenzied collection of alliteration and wordplay, all of it worth reading a second time and certainly aloud. The poems I liked I loved and love. The ones I didn't swung me around and tossed me to the next page. Truly manic poetry, arranged in an order (library, parlor, bath, etc) I don't fully understand.
October 31, 2020
It took me so long to finish cuz I started it and then lost it in my car and then MY WIFE LEFT ME HAHA
So I found it today *coughs* and finished the two poems I didn’t get to.
It’s one of my favorite contemporary poetry books! No joke. Love how layered it is, the language is so f i e r y and I could easily relate to it without a companion book analyzing it line by line.
So I found it today *coughs* and finished the two poems I didn’t get to.
It’s one of my favorite contemporary poetry books! No joke. Love how layered it is, the language is so f i e r y and I could easily relate to it without a companion book analyzing it line by line.
October 11, 2017
There are a several really great poems in this collection, and as a whole it's certainly worth the read. If you ever have a chance to see Karyna do a reading, go. The way she gives voice to the poems she reads makes each collection of hers that you pick up that much more engaging.
June 16, 2018
Read almost entirely in one sitting. Catchy, lots of winding alliteration and rhyme that shows her obvious love of language, but many of the poems felt mean-spirited and I just couldn’t get past that.
January 30, 2022
"'I don't have a motive,' you tell them as they check the box on the form that says that you do."
I loved the way this book was organized like the rooms of a house, which each room having an overarching theme. 'Eyebrows' really resonated with me.
I loved the way this book was organized like the rooms of a house, which each room having an overarching theme. 'Eyebrows' really resonated with me.
December 18, 2023
Favorites - When Someone Says I Love You, Square Rooms, Russel Says Everybody Is Aubrey, Caretaker, ARS Poetica In a Boat (With You), You Are My New God, The New Sincerity, Ouvrir, First-Aid Kit, Mortification Montage.
July 10, 2017
my first entrance into mcglynn's poetry since I failed at reading I Have to Go Back to 1994 and Kill a Girl before it was due back at the library about two or three different times. her poems are visual and electric, things that I gave myself days to read, like staining my fingers with paint and not bothering to wash it off until mid-week. i loved the locational structure she gave to it, which made the collection something I can physically travel through.
September 20, 2017
The power is in the storytelling and not necessarily the craft.
Accessible for people wary of poetry.
Accessible for people wary of poetry.
September 22, 2017
I'm always doing this: failing at a task then trying to protect the part I ruined, like something might hatch of my mistake.
November 21, 2017
Includes some interesting poetry.
February 12, 2018
A sledgehammer of poetry.
September 6, 2018
I had complicated feelings as I read.
December 28, 2019
3.5-4
January 25, 2020
This read like an album of great songs, telling stories sharp and emotional.
June 27, 2020
McGlynn is truly a great American poet and a visionary artist. Read these poems!
July 23, 2023
dnf unfortunately
I was drawn to the cover but this collection wasn't for me.
I was drawn to the cover but this collection wasn't for me.
January 30, 2024
Ms McGlynn, I could read you every day. *sigh*
Displaying 1 - 30 of 34 reviews