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Poems about <font color=#0C5FF0>House</font>s

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  • Poems about <font color=#0C5FF0>House</font>s

    This poem was read on Writer's Almanac today, and I thought, Hey--good poem. And then I thought, Hey: we could use a thread for (good) poems about s!

    729 ("The Props assist the ")

    by Emily Dickinson

    The Props assist the
    Until the is built
    And then the Props withdraw
    And adequate, erect,
    The support itself
    And cease to recollect
    The Augur and the Carpenter
    Just such a retrospect
    Hath the perfected Life
    A Past of Plank and Nail
    And slowness then the scaffolds drop
    Affirming it a Soul

  • #2
    Despite the title, this reminds me of Johnny's examining the detritus of Zampanò's apartment:

    "Abandoned Farm," by Ted Kooser (source)

    He was a big man, says the size of his shoes
    on a pile of broken dishes by the ;
    a tall man too, says the length of the bed
    in an upstairs room; and a good, God-fearing man,
    says the Bible with a broken back
    on the floor below the window, dusty with sun;
    but not a man for farming, say the fields
    cluttered with boulders and the leaky barn.

    A woman lived with him, says the bedroom wall
    papered with lilacs and the kitchen shelves
    covered with oilcloth, and they had a child,
    says the sandbox made from a tractor tire.
    Money was scarce, say the jars of plum preserves
    and canned tomatoes sealed in the cellar hole.
    And the winters cold, say the rags in the window frames.
    It was lonely here, says the narrow country road.

    Something went wrong, says the empty
    in the weed-choked yard. Stones in the fields
    say he was not a farmer; the still-sealed jars
    in the cellar say she left in a nervous haste.
    And the child? Its toys are strewn in the yard
    like branches after a storm-a rubber cow,
    a rusty tractor with a broken plow,
    a doll in overalls. Something went wrong, they say.