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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How to Write a Poem uses images like the buzz, the switch, the wave—from the Billy Collins poem “Introduction to Poetry”—to guide writers into new ways of writing poems. Excellent teaching tool. Anthology and prompts included.
“How to Write a Poem is a classroom must-have.”
—Callie Feyen, English Teacher, Maryland
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Bethany Rohde says
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.
Andrew H says
Thanks! I like that line too, if that doesn’t sound arrogant coming from the one who wrote it 😛
L. L. Barkat says
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! 🙂 )
Andrew H says
Sometimes it’s even more important to know there are any good lines in there at all! Glad I made you smile, too. 🙂
Bethany says
I agree with L.L. Barkat’s comment. 🙂
Donna says
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.
Andrew H says
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 😛
Rick Maxson says
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.
Bethany says
“Dissection never reveals the whole.” Succinct and true.
Andrew H says
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.
Elizabeth says
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.
Andrew H says
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!
Bethany says
“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.
Andrew H says
Thanks so much for taking the time to read it! Posting is a small thing in comparison.
Bethany says
My pleasure, Andrew. I hope you continue to share here.
Donna says
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.
Bethany says
So fun, Donna!
Sandra Heska King says
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.
Andrew H says
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.
Sandra Heska King says
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.
Bethany says
I can see the scene, Sandra! Such a great description of sharing a (s)play-space. 😉