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House & Home: Living Room Poems

By Heather Eure 21 Comments

living_room_poems
Whether it’s called the sitting room, the parlor, drawing room, or family room, the living room is a space devoted to relaxing and socializing. The term living room was coined in the late 19th or early 20th century.

Until the late 19th century, the front parlor was the room in the house used for formal social events, including where the recently deceased were laid out before their funeral. The term “living room” was initially found in the decorating literature of the 1890’s, where a living room is understood to be a reflection of the personality of the designer, rather than the Victorian conventions of the day. The rise of the living room and the funeral parlor outside the home meant the end of the dedicated room for receiving guests that had become common in the Victorian period.

Try It

What is it about your living room that invites you to sit and relax? What is your favorite part of the room? Who gathers in that space? What are your best memories of the living room? Write a poem about it and share it with us in the comment section below.

Featured Poem

Thanks to everyone who participated in last week’s poetry prompt. Here is a poem by Andrew we enjoyed:

I see myself. Is this usual?
The table faces outward
Into darkness. There, swimming
In the ink of time
I rest.

There I can see inward,
Not out. Light, black tiles
The bustle of some meal
Progressing like instruction;
A test.

There is a pineapple, shining
Belleek, quite rare – unique
With swirling lid. It lay
A time, but when was it
Caressed?

A book, I’m sure it must
Be mine, sits stately
By the chair. A gift
Left there for me, at my
Behest.

Most of all, comfort;
Life, and joy, and care.
They were such happy days. Inward
So very inward, comes reply –
The last.

A bag shifts weight, the me
In flows of time ripples. Window
Stares forlorn at me. It’s dark, so dark.
The past leaves us so suddenly,
So fast.

—by Andrew

Photo by Houser Wolf. Creative Commons via Flickr. Post by Heather Eure.

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  • Author
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Heather Eure
Heather Eure
Heather Eure has served as the Poetry Editor for the late Burnside Collective and Special Projects Editor for us at Tweetspeak Poetry. Her poems have appeared at Every Day Poems. Her wit has appeared just about everywhere she's ever showed up, and if you're lucky you were there to hear it.
Heather Eure
Latest posts by Heather Eure (see all)
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  • Poetry Prompt: Behind the Velvet Rope - February 26, 2018

Filed Under: Blog, House&Home, poetry prompt, poetry teaching resources, Themed Writing Projects, writer's group resources, writing prompts

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Comments

  1. Bethany Rohde says

    December 21, 2015 at 12:05 pm

    Enjoyed reading the lines of Andrew’s poem:
    “…There, swimming
    In the ink of time
    I rest.”

    Love this prompt: The Living Room. Interesting to hear a little of the phrase’s etymology. You’ve got me thinking.

    Reply
    • Andrew H says

      December 21, 2015 at 9:03 pm

      Thanks! I like that line too, if that doesn’t sound arrogant coming from the one who wrote it 😛

      Reply
      • L. L. Barkat says

        December 21, 2015 at 9:17 pm

        I think it’s important for us to love our good lines and to understand what makes them good. (And your comment about thinking on the sonnet as you wrote made me smile! 🙂 )

        Reply
        • Andrew H says

          December 30, 2015 at 4:51 pm

          Sometimes it’s even more important to know there are any good lines in there at all! Glad I made you smile, too. 🙂

          Reply
      • Bethany says

        December 21, 2015 at 11:43 pm

        I agree with L.L. Barkat’s comment. 🙂

        Reply
    • Donna says

      December 22, 2015 at 9:55 am

      I love the details here – the simple things, easily unseen – like the image of Beleek caressed.

      My favorite line is this one:
      A bag shifts weight, the me
      In flows of time ripples.

      The me in flows of time ripples…. what an image and sensation.

      Reply
      • Andrew H says

        December 30, 2015 at 4:49 pm

        The Beleek is an old heirloom – easily missed by others, but central to the room for me. Nice of you to give your favourite line – it can only boost an already inflated ego 😛

        Reply
  2. Rick Maxson says

    December 21, 2015 at 12:59 pm

    Living Room

    With its eyes I see the mountains
    pulse under a heart of sky,
    in slow rhythmic oscillations.

    I listen to the leaves—
    those that fall, those that persist
    on their dichotomy of stems—

    in a wind that is nearly silent,
    not like the hidden fingers on a harp,
    but rather those of the guitarist

    moving unapologetically up and down
    the frets, so that into the music
    she weaves the agony of callouses.

    Dissection never reveals the whole.
    The fragile rings hide their stature,
    as the trees mock their seasons,

    brandishing their rattling bassinets
    in Spring and in the throes of Autumn
    drop their dappled dress exposed.

    There are memories that hold me
    here, fibers that vibrate from my searching
    for the words to describe them,

    words, like houses made of trees,
    that let the winds play at their doors,
    and let the windowed light know where I am.

    Reply
    • Bethany says

      December 21, 2015 at 11:47 pm

      “Dissection never reveals the whole.” Succinct and true.

      Reply
  3. Andrew H says

    December 21, 2015 at 9:01 pm

    I am the living room. You sit, and think a time,
    Restless in your security. Hoping for more.
    I have seen what you want, in green-pine woods
    That covered all the hills, the silent vales and ancient tor.

    Now pine is what you walk on; it’s forgotten how to soar
    But it makes chairs that hold, fixtures that frown.

    A river ran some time, and greened the lands around,
    But man controlled, dammed, dug and raised a town –

    Now waters run around the brick, delved from the earth
    That housed its ancient trickles. Rude tribes-men,
    Mysterious in greens and browns, no longer walk this land –
    Instead, their ancient efforts are the arts that grace your den.

    This house was built by comers-in whose blood you share.
    I am younger than you, in years of men. But see
    My brick, my sweeping fireplace formed not here,
    But far away, across some lost unfathomed sea.

    I am new, but this house is not. It whispers in its frames,
    Stirs, longs, cares, hopes. Of forest it was made,
    Of wood and stone, formed by your blood and bone
    Years before you were born. And here it staid

    While time, like some celestial river flowed
    And wearied it. Subdued it. Tamed it.
    I am new. You sit and look at me – do you hear my promise?
    I mutter it while you slump in your sleep.
    The vows of forest wood and river stone,
    Of sylvan blood and oaken bone.

    Reply
    • Elizabeth says

      December 22, 2015 at 11:31 am

      Now pine is what you walk on; it’s forgotten how to soar

      That housed its ancient trickles. Rude tribes-men,
      Mysterious in greens and browns, no longer walk this land –
      Instead, their ancient efforts are the arts that grace your den.

      I am new, but this house is not. It whispers in its frames,
      Stirs, longs, cares, hopes. Of forest it was made,
      Of wood and stone, formed by your blood and bone
      Years before you were born. And here it staid

      I like your take on this prompt. It invites reflection on how we use our natural resources like trees and water. The earth is like a natural Home Depot.

      Reply
      • Andrew H says

        December 30, 2015 at 4:43 pm

        It’s sadly the case that people often overlook the source of their possessions – be it brick and mortar or something smaller. Thanks for looking through it, though!

        Reply
    • Bethany says

      December 22, 2015 at 1:34 pm

      “Now pine is what you walk on; it’s forgotten how to soar”
      Fabulous thought and line, Andrew, thanks so much for sharing your poem here.

      Reply
      • Andrew H says

        December 30, 2015 at 4:39 pm

        Thanks so much for taking the time to read it! Posting is a small thing in comparison.

        Reply
        • Bethany says

          December 30, 2015 at 4:43 pm

          My pleasure, Andrew. I hope you continue to share here.

          Reply
  4. Donna says

    December 22, 2015 at 9:59 am

    No matter where I serve my guests
    they always like my kitchen
    (which is in my dining room,
    wihich is in my living room)
    best.

    Reply
    • Bethany says

      December 22, 2015 at 1:30 pm

      So fun, Donna!

      Reply
  5. Sandra Heska King says

    December 22, 2015 at 10:22 am

    I really liked the lines that were mentioned above, too, Andrew. But then this stopped me.

    “The past leaves us so suddenly,
    So fast.”

    And the older I get, the faster it goes. Sometimes that’s a good thing–there are things I’d much rather fade away fast and very fast. But so much in the present I want to revel in while it is… present, gifted.

    Reply
    • Andrew H says

      December 30, 2015 at 4:45 pm

      Unfortunately time has to move, and in that regard it’s like a river – only one way. Still! It’s an interesting ride, no matter how short.

      Reply
  6. Sandra Heska King says

    December 22, 2015 at 1:18 pm

    Grandkids in the Living Room

    Buzz and Woody stand guard at the window
    after the explosion upended the wee pink crib and stroller.
    A rag doll splays prone underneath an overturned carseat.
    The doctor kit’s strewn across the floor,
    and in the center of the room the two-year-old leaps
    into the pile of pillows. “To Infinity… and beyond!” Buzz bellows.
    “Your turn,” the two-year-old orders as he tugs at the
    thirteen-year-old who’s splayed across the sofa.
    Resistance is futile.
    The grandkids have commandeered my living room.

    Reply
    • Bethany says

      December 22, 2015 at 1:38 pm

      I can see the scene, Sandra! Such a great description of sharing a (s)play-space. 😉

      Reply

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