The door
We go through—
So small.
The rooms
We enter—immense.
—Gregory Orr, The City of Poetry (Sarabande Books, Quarternote Chapbook Series #10. 2012)
Showing posts with label room. Show all posts
Showing posts with label room. Show all posts
12.26.2025
8.28.2024
radio left on
Most poems will be like a radio left on in a vacant room, a device talking into space.
Labels:
poem is,
publishing poetry,
radio,
room
1.13.2023
echo form
Two people walk into a poetry reading late, while the reader is reciting her pantoum.
The guy says to his date, 'Gosh, there's a terrible echo in this room'.
10.18.2022
1.04.2022
6.10.2021
close reading
Close reading: Trying to be in the room where the poem happened.
Labels:
close reading,
composition,
criticism,
room
2.28.2021
room for more
Poems are creatures we put into the world to respond to us, and to whom we, in turn, respond. And marvelously there’s always room for more.
—Irving Feldman, Usable Truths (Waywiser Press, 2019)
—Irving Feldman, Usable Truths (Waywiser Press, 2019)
12.14.2019
from another room
Allusions are the like voices half-heard from adjoining rooms.
Labels:
allusion,
half-heard,
room,
voices
1.11.2018
secured rooms
When I first heard of blockchain technology, I immediately thought of a strong poem in stanzas.
Labels:
blockchain,
chain,
room,
stanzas,
technology,
times
9.02.2017
all art
Little by little, pictures encumbered all the rooms, till only a room or two was left for the purposes of the man who required to eat, sleep, entertain his friends. Little by little the hours in which he was still the man whom he was so well, became rarer. His house was already almost a museum, his flesh and blood little more than the place where a work of art was being accomplished.
—Marcel Proust “Gustave Moreau,” Marcel Proust on Art and Literature, 1896-1919 (Dell Publishing Co., 1964), translated by Sylvia Townsend Warner.
—Marcel Proust “Gustave Moreau,” Marcel Proust on Art and Literature, 1896-1919 (Dell Publishing Co., 1964), translated by Sylvia Townsend Warner.
1.30.2016
minimal inventory
Practical Philosophy
Baruch Spinoza, by profession a lens-grinder, spent the last years of his life in lodgings on the Pavilion Gracht, in the Hague, most of his time in one room, often taking his meals there, and sometimes not leaving it for several days when he was at work on a project. His first biographer listed his final possessions: “The inventory of a true philosopher. Some small books, some engravings, a few lenses and the instruments to polish them.” His desk, containing letters and unpublished works, was sent to his publisher in Amsterdam.
A poem is a glass, through which light is conveyed to us.
—Susan Howe, “Vagrancy in the Park,” The Quarry (New Directions, 2015).
Baruch Spinoza, by profession a lens-grinder, spent the last years of his life in lodgings on the Pavilion Gracht, in the Hague, most of his time in one room, often taking his meals there, and sometimes not leaving it for several days when he was at work on a project. His first biographer listed his final possessions: “The inventory of a true philosopher. Some small books, some engravings, a few lenses and the instruments to polish them.” His desk, containing letters and unpublished works, was sent to his publisher in Amsterdam.
A poem is a glass, through which light is conveyed to us.
—Susan Howe, “Vagrancy in the Park,” The Quarry (New Directions, 2015).
Labels:
baruch spinoza,
glass,
lens,
life,
philosopher,
philosophy,
poetry is,
room,
susan howe
12.21.2014
6.15.2014
more light
So often in a writer’s photo it’s a wan person holed up in a little room, hunched over a typewriter or keyboard, with a shelf of books where a window should be.
Labels:
author photo,
bookshelf,
keyboard,
room,
typewriter,
wan,
window,
writer's photo
11.26.2011
good in a room
The sonnet is the right form for frustrated interior decorators.
Labels:
form,
interior decorator,
room,
sonnet
2.28.2007
many rooms
The poem has many rooms, corridors, and closets.
Labels:
closet,
complexity,
corridor,
room
3.19.2006
poetry's one-room schoolhouse
With a degree of sentimentality, we love the sonnet because it is poetry’s one-room schoolhouse.
Labels:
room,
schoolhouse,
sonnet
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