What do you think?
Rate this book
Mysteries of Small Houses
A Pulitzer Prize Finalist
Winner of the Los Angeles Time Book Prize
An autobiographical collection of poetry by Alice Notley, "One of America's greatest poets" (Poetry Foundation)
Alice Notley vividly reconstructs the mysteries, longings, and emotions of her past in this brilliant collection of poems that charts her growth from young girl to young woman to accomplished artist. In this volume, memories of her childhood in the California desert spring to life through evocative renderings of the American landscape, circa 1950. Likewise, her coming of age as a poet in the turbulent sixties is evoked through the era's angry, creative energy. As she looks backward with the perspective that time and age allows, Notley ably captures the immediacy of youth's passion while offering her own dry-eyed interpretations of the events of a life lived close to the bone. Like the colorful collages she assembles from paper and other found materials, Notley erects structures of image and feeling to house the memories that swirl around her in the present.In their feverish, intelligent renderings of moments both precise and ephemeral, Notley's poems manage to mirror and transcend the times they evoke. Her profound tributes to the stages of her life and to the identities she has assumed—child, youth, lover, poet, wife, mother, friend, and widow—are remarkable for their insight and wisdom, and for the courage of their unblinking gaze.
- GenresPoetry
162 pages, Kindle Edition
First published May 1, 1998
21 people are currently reading
1056 people want to read
About the author
Alice Notley
85 books224 followersAlice Notley was an American poet. Notley came to prominence as a member of the second generation of the New York School of poetry—although she always denied being involved with the New York School or any specific movement in general. Notley's early work laid both formal and theoretical groundwork for several generations of poets; she was considered a pioneering voice on topics like motherhood and domestic life.
Notley's experimentation with poetic form, seen in her books 165 Meeting House Lane, When I Was Alive, The Descent of Alette, and Culture of One, ranges from a blurred line between genres, to a quotation-mark-driven interpretation of the variable foot, to a full reinvention of the purpose and potential of strict rhythm and meter. She also experimented with channeling spirits of deceased loved ones, primarily men gone from her life like her father and her husband, poet Ted Berrigan, and used these conversations as topics and form in her poetry. Her poems have also been compared to those of Gertrude Stein as well as her contemporary Bernadette Mayer. Mayer and Notley both used their experience as mothers and wives in their work.
In addition to poetry, Notley wrote a book of criticism (Coming After, University of Michigan, 2005), a play ("Anne's White Glove"—performed at the Eye & Ear Theater in 1985), a biography (Tell Me Again, Am Here, 1982), and she edited three publications, Chicago, Scarlet, and Gare du Nord, the latter two co-edited with Douglas Oliver. Notley's collage art appeared in Rudy Burckhardt's film "Wayward Glimpses" and her illustrations have appeared on the cover of numerous books, including a few of her own. As is often written in her biographical notes, "She has never tried to be anything other than a poet," and with over forty books and chapbooks and several major awards, she was one of the most prolific and lauded American poets. She was a recipient of the Ruth Lilly Poetry Prize.
Notley's experimentation with poetic form, seen in her books 165 Meeting House Lane, When I Was Alive, The Descent of Alette, and Culture of One, ranges from a blurred line between genres, to a quotation-mark-driven interpretation of the variable foot, to a full reinvention of the purpose and potential of strict rhythm and meter. She also experimented with channeling spirits of deceased loved ones, primarily men gone from her life like her father and her husband, poet Ted Berrigan, and used these conversations as topics and form in her poetry. Her poems have also been compared to those of Gertrude Stein as well as her contemporary Bernadette Mayer. Mayer and Notley both used their experience as mothers and wives in their work.
In addition to poetry, Notley wrote a book of criticism (Coming After, University of Michigan, 2005), a play ("Anne's White Glove"—performed at the Eye & Ear Theater in 1985), a biography (Tell Me Again, Am Here, 1982), and she edited three publications, Chicago, Scarlet, and Gare du Nord, the latter two co-edited with Douglas Oliver. Notley's collage art appeared in Rudy Burckhardt's film "Wayward Glimpses" and her illustrations have appeared on the cover of numerous books, including a few of her own. As is often written in her biographical notes, "She has never tried to be anything other than a poet," and with over forty books and chapbooks and several major awards, she was one of the most prolific and lauded American poets. She was a recipient of the Ruth Lilly Poetry Prize.
Ratings & Reviews
Friends & Following
Create a free account to discover what your friends think of this book!
Community Reviews
Displaying 1 - 30 of 35 reviews
January 9, 2021
“I modeled for art classes
that's rather interesting
the hypocrisy: nobody needs
to paint nude women
they just like to. So here I am
naked for art, which is a lot of
dumb fucks I already know,
same with poetry.
Written and judged by. Those befoibled guys
who think — you know —
the poetic moment's a pocket in
pool; where can I publish it; what can
I do to my second or third wife now.” — “As Good as Anything”
that's rather interesting
the hypocrisy: nobody needs
to paint nude women
they just like to. So here I am
naked for art, which is a lot of
dumb fucks I already know,
same with poetry.
Written and judged by. Those befoibled guys
who think — you know —
the poetic moment's a pocket in
pool; where can I publish it; what can
I do to my second or third wife now.” — “As Good as Anything”
May 4, 2008
There is a recording of Notley reading THE AMAZING poem "C-81" from this book here: http://www.writing.upenn.edu/pennsoun... It's hard to choose a FAVORITE Notley book, but this is without a doubt one of my favorites by her! You may also want to read an interview I did with her where I ask her a series of questions about writing these poems: http://phillysound.blogspot.com/2007_... EVERYONE should own this book!
July 6, 2020
tfw St. Francis of a not sissy
June 21, 2025
one of my favourite voices in contemporary and modern poetry, and up until a couple of weeks ago I would have said Notley was my favourite living poet (RIP).
December 8, 2025
reading this felt like i was in the midst of a singular coarse and beautiful dream.
May 24, 2012
notley is obviously gifted and this book is occasionally beautiful, but I couldn't finish it. too much navel gazing, too much speculation about the identity and construction of the self blah blah blah. very 1990's. even the teacher who assigned this said that such questions are beginning to seem dated and trivial in a world where people are more likely to be wondering how they are going to afford feeding themselves.
February 5, 2013
I really liked Alice Notley's poetry until I heard her read in San Francisco. She kinda killed it for me.
November 13, 2024
My advisors: RACHEL YOU NEED TO START WRITING YOUR FIRST CHAPTER
me: i think i need to read mysteries of small houses a third time
me: i think i need to read mysteries of small houses a third time
June 24, 2024
Absolutely adored this.
March 13, 2009
"Disobedience especially to my audience..."
June 30, 2021
This was a library book and I did not have time to finish it all. Will return to it later at some point.
Read
July 12, 2021the grammar/writing style of this poetry genuinely made me feel like i having a stroke the entire time i read it
December 14, 2024
In Alice Notley’s book, the biggest correlation I see between it and the topic TEXT AS
BODY/BODY AS MEDIUM is the dichotomy between the physical body and the body of the
artist. The body as a machine for generating work, for digesting emotions with intent to share it,
for experiencing tragedy with the solace of being able to use it for a poem. The body as a vessel
for experiences that get poured into poetry. The body capable of experiencing grief, excitement,
shame, and unconditional love, so long as it generates a poem. Notley can’t even feel her kids
enough if they don’t come with a next line: “My kids are like me superficially so I watch them/
or, writing, ignore them, until they say something I like/ I need their words for my poems.” (54)
She watches them to see herself, then she gets back to herself when they provide, and ignores
them until they do.
She sees herself in the context of her peers, her emotions as art movements that fit in with
the beats but maybe not the language poets, those poets around her having a say in how she
should experience her trauma. Like in The Year of the Premonitory Dream that Ted and Steve left
Me (61) where a crowd of poets infest her interpretation of a dream where she was looking into
the future, predicting her grief later in the book. She almost can’t grasp that preemptive emotion,
as she is watched by everyone from Henry James to Allen Ginsberg to Simone Weil with their
styles and their visions of the stylistic approaches they take to interpret these signals. “Allen
comes in and says, this smells of speed that cum in your pants” but it’s just elmer’s glue,
showing a divide between how Ginsberg would process an emotion, or the image of glue on
pants, opposing the reality of Notley’s, who has children who leave sticky things behind on her
clothes.
In the last third of the book she digs reality out of the fabrication of poetic language. She
can no longer accept her vessel body when faced with the death of her husband, as well as the
trauma of her brother’s deployment story in Vietnam. The poem Sept 17/ Aug 29, ‘88 (100) is so
real and bare-boned that it’s almost prose. Prose being in opposition to her vessel body, it can no
longer carry poetry on its back, she can no longer put off her grief by fabricating it into poems. In
the poem a few pages later In Needles and to Poet What are Real Things (117) she says “And
words? So what.” which is in stark contrast to the poems in the beginning of the book, where she
admitted to loving poetry more than her own children. By the end of this poem, she breaks apart
the vessel body she had created, and comes to terms with the cliche: what I feel can’t be put into
words. She offers to give the next poet an A if they so desire it, if they have ‘words for what’s
precious, which you say/ is ours,” the way she desired that in the past.
I see Notley as the unfulfilled version of the clairvoyant in Otherworld. Where the
clairvoyant in the podcast unlocked her receptive powers later in life and became a vessel,
Notley’s book is about unbecoming that same kind of vessel. In the way that the clairvoyant
would give readings and not remember anything she said because she was letting energy pass
through her, Notley also began the book letting emotions pass through her from the experience to
the page for the sake of the poetry. Yet the clairvoyant’s direction and peace with it had to be
built up by the “light” she talks about, while Notley’s was broken down by grief, trauma and the
realization of what this vessel-ness had done to her, and how it was no longer serving her, as her
children were growing and people were dying around her, and she couldn’t tune in unless it was
to compare herself to her artist peers.
BODY/BODY AS MEDIUM is the dichotomy between the physical body and the body of the
artist. The body as a machine for generating work, for digesting emotions with intent to share it,
for experiencing tragedy with the solace of being able to use it for a poem. The body as a vessel
for experiences that get poured into poetry. The body capable of experiencing grief, excitement,
shame, and unconditional love, so long as it generates a poem. Notley can’t even feel her kids
enough if they don’t come with a next line: “My kids are like me superficially so I watch them/
or, writing, ignore them, until they say something I like/ I need their words for my poems.” (54)
She watches them to see herself, then she gets back to herself when they provide, and ignores
them until they do.
She sees herself in the context of her peers, her emotions as art movements that fit in with
the beats but maybe not the language poets, those poets around her having a say in how she
should experience her trauma. Like in The Year of the Premonitory Dream that Ted and Steve left
Me (61) where a crowd of poets infest her interpretation of a dream where she was looking into
the future, predicting her grief later in the book. She almost can’t grasp that preemptive emotion,
as she is watched by everyone from Henry James to Allen Ginsberg to Simone Weil with their
styles and their visions of the stylistic approaches they take to interpret these signals. “Allen
comes in and says, this smells of speed that cum in your pants” but it’s just elmer’s glue,
showing a divide between how Ginsberg would process an emotion, or the image of glue on
pants, opposing the reality of Notley’s, who has children who leave sticky things behind on her
clothes.
In the last third of the book she digs reality out of the fabrication of poetic language. She
can no longer accept her vessel body when faced with the death of her husband, as well as the
trauma of her brother’s deployment story in Vietnam. The poem Sept 17/ Aug 29, ‘88 (100) is so
real and bare-boned that it’s almost prose. Prose being in opposition to her vessel body, it can no
longer carry poetry on its back, she can no longer put off her grief by fabricating it into poems. In
the poem a few pages later In Needles and to Poet What are Real Things (117) she says “And
words? So what.” which is in stark contrast to the poems in the beginning of the book, where she
admitted to loving poetry more than her own children. By the end of this poem, she breaks apart
the vessel body she had created, and comes to terms with the cliche: what I feel can’t be put into
words. She offers to give the next poet an A if they so desire it, if they have ‘words for what’s
precious, which you say/ is ours,” the way she desired that in the past.
I see Notley as the unfulfilled version of the clairvoyant in Otherworld. Where the
clairvoyant in the podcast unlocked her receptive powers later in life and became a vessel,
Notley’s book is about unbecoming that same kind of vessel. In the way that the clairvoyant
would give readings and not remember anything she said because she was letting energy pass
through her, Notley also began the book letting emotions pass through her from the experience to
the page for the sake of the poetry. Yet the clairvoyant’s direction and peace with it had to be
built up by the “light” she talks about, while Notley’s was broken down by grief, trauma and the
realization of what this vessel-ness had done to her, and how it was no longer serving her, as her
children were growing and people were dying around her, and she couldn’t tune in unless it was
to compare herself to her artist peers.
Read
May 20, 2025“I am/ what I asked for/ I’m speaking/ I speak like this” (15)
“they like me but they patronize what will be known in ignorance as my ‘idealism’… can you be how you want despite others, i hope to (still)/ I’ll always be this adolescent— im right that I won’t change/ i may seem insufferable to you, i want to live in true thoughts/ this desert with nothing between me and it never trembles/ such clarity obviates the heart” (26-27)
I’ll give you what I know if you’ll
give too
of course I’ll go as far towards
world as supposed to I’m
a good girl
though I won’t lose my darkness what
else do I have
sit in it on a dead tomb of knowing (32)
the kinds of experience still in between the ones
talked about in literature and even in Ted’s library
which finally makes poetry possible for me but I’ve
not read a voice like my own like my own voice will be (42)
Someone’s free to do this to me I am
free or unfree to be hurt as deeply
as dreams but not as deeply as art for
when I write I don’t care what else is (43)
Nothing deep in me makes me be like that
I’m not that possession I enact it
but it comes from the world where Eros was
invented how am I happy at the
same time as not I love and write alive (44)
Menstruation covered with sand, garnets and amber (46)
A poem must be of its times without giving in to them
A poem must be better than its times as
a self must be—
This poem’s a black window, not a collage
I’ll have to bless it myself. 60
Most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen
Because the best is always now and some paint my
Old gold ink
And diamondlike pieces of shattered car window
The really ruined world 62
It isn’t art now all my mistakes are still there
probably because I tried so hard to be in the world. 71
I’m being self-righteous so
I can own my own past again
and so my present, no bondage or confinement
of shame of not making money
it’s a talent people are born with—poetry isn’t it’s
life’s condition poetry’s so common hardly anyone
can find it 80
don’t think with myself
do with
myself or with people only
there is this blackness inside unmechanical
a sort of
breath
that isn’t always
breathed 88
by the secrecy of my mutation
I feel as if I’m becoming something I
already should have been 104
It’s possible that I still live there
Apartment that is path-narrow
I don’t want to be there in this poem if
Anyone else is, from the past, I want it to be empty
A lot of dust I let fall 127
It soaks up the present’s secondhand ideas
All those fuzzy words. Only the past is true
as it changes 132
but now I seem to know that the name of a self is poverty
that the pronoun I means such and that starting so
poorly, I can live 156
“they like me but they patronize what will be known in ignorance as my ‘idealism’… can you be how you want despite others, i hope to (still)/ I’ll always be this adolescent— im right that I won’t change/ i may seem insufferable to you, i want to live in true thoughts/ this desert with nothing between me and it never trembles/ such clarity obviates the heart” (26-27)
I’ll give you what I know if you’ll
give too
of course I’ll go as far towards
world as supposed to I’m
a good girl
though I won’t lose my darkness what
else do I have
sit in it on a dead tomb of knowing (32)
the kinds of experience still in between the ones
talked about in literature and even in Ted’s library
which finally makes poetry possible for me but I’ve
not read a voice like my own like my own voice will be (42)
Someone’s free to do this to me I am
free or unfree to be hurt as deeply
as dreams but not as deeply as art for
when I write I don’t care what else is (43)
Nothing deep in me makes me be like that
I’m not that possession I enact it
but it comes from the world where Eros was
invented how am I happy at the
same time as not I love and write alive (44)
Menstruation covered with sand, garnets and amber (46)
A poem must be of its times without giving in to them
A poem must be better than its times as
a self must be—
This poem’s a black window, not a collage
I’ll have to bless it myself. 60
Most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen
Because the best is always now and some paint my
Old gold ink
And diamondlike pieces of shattered car window
The really ruined world 62
It isn’t art now all my mistakes are still there
probably because I tried so hard to be in the world. 71
I’m being self-righteous so
I can own my own past again
and so my present, no bondage or confinement
of shame of not making money
it’s a talent people are born with—poetry isn’t it’s
life’s condition poetry’s so common hardly anyone
can find it 80
don’t think with myself
do with
myself or with people only
there is this blackness inside unmechanical
a sort of
breath
that isn’t always
breathed 88
by the secrecy of my mutation
I feel as if I’m becoming something I
already should have been 104
It’s possible that I still live there
Apartment that is path-narrow
I don’t want to be there in this poem if
Anyone else is, from the past, I want it to be empty
A lot of dust I let fall 127
It soaks up the present’s secondhand ideas
All those fuzzy words. Only the past is true
as it changes 132
but now I seem to know that the name of a self is poverty
that the pronoun I means such and that starting so
poorly, I can live 156
May 16, 2024
Didn't love all of this, but the Notley heights are unusually high. A shoveling intellect scavenging for some sort of self. Coming-of-age poems operate as a means of recording Notley's construction or, rather, accrual in her early years. Many poems concern the development of a poetic voice (or a voice in general), including an incredible poem reveling in and critiquing the Iowa Writers' Workshop. Grief, family, origin, home, exterior vs. interior worlds, material life, expectation, and money troubles provide some of the essential thematic grounding for the sprawling collection.
The unifier, to me, appears to be lack: lack of talent, lack of money, lack of love, lack of eternity, lack of knowledge, lack of foresight, lack of identity, lack of self. It all comes together to comically, angrily, peripatetically curate an idiosyncratic sense of time, politics, gender, memory, and a ceaseless drive to comprehend, even when comprehension proves impossible.
The unifier, to me, appears to be lack: lack of talent, lack of money, lack of love, lack of eternity, lack of knowledge, lack of foresight, lack of identity, lack of self. It all comes together to comically, angrily, peripatetically curate an idiosyncratic sense of time, politics, gender, memory, and a ceaseless drive to comprehend, even when comprehension proves impossible.
July 5, 2024
something about this felt way more satisfying and successful than the being reflected upon iteration (which is just kind of the same exact thing but in a different era and even more navel gaze-y and resting-upon-laurels-y....there's also the seeing her read that one live and having the entire myth pulled out from under you/don't meet your idols thing) maybe it was/is this coming out in 1998 versus 2024 or that you can convince yourself of the magic if you're like approaching this with a fun weed buzz idk let's circle back/debate
October 21, 2018
I know there is an audience for this book, but I am not part of it. It was too rambling, shallow—Ted” accuses her of “having no philosophy” in The Trouble With You Girls, and rightly so—and self-centered to hold any depth of emotion or reveal something of the human condition. When you’re ranting constantly about wanting to BE a poet, you stop introspecting and revealing all that is poetic about you.
August 14, 2022
I am a long-time Alice Notley fan and an avid collector of all her work. I originally read this book sometime in 2010 and was utterly obsessed with it. Revisiting it now, I found it unpolished compared to her other work, especially her masterpiece Descent of Alette (which predated this collection only by a few years). I love it still, and there are multiple poems within that leave me breathless, but overall I find the collection sadly underwhelming.
September 30, 2025
Wow. my god wowwowowoow
April 1, 2015
Alice Notley’s Mysteries of Small Houses reads to me as a poetic and self-reflective diary of Notley’s life from childhood to moving around the USA to her marriage to Ted and his death. The book moves chronologically (although on a very surreally-conveyed journey) all the way to her current life in Paris.
Her poetry can be hard to follow at times, a challenge which I don’t mind, as it is highly personal, uniquely philosophical, and abstract. However, to me it is abstract in a way that a well-crafted piece of visual art can be successfully abstract, and not in a way that implies lazy crafting or vagueness.
A lot of her of poems defy conventional form by avoiding the use of punctuation such as commas and periods. This causes sentences to read chaotic, run-on, and builds momentum and energy, especially when there is no line break and the only indicator of a new sentence is a capitalized letter or sometimes nothing at all. It also reminds me of stream-of-consciousness and how often when we think in our heads, there is no proper punctuation happening. It’s often fleeting thought after another either linked together in one long sentence, or merged fragments. The most unique way I thought she defied form was through broken sentences:
“I came here so that the
I came to be equal in surprise to
I came empty-handed before being dried.” (Remember What I Came Here to Do to This World Very Little Actually, 133).
This is a poem conveyed in fragments, once again paralleling a very overactive, thought-processing mind which I think we all get some times. Even the title of the poem is chaotic.
Another way in which Notley feeds stream-of-consciousness, surreal journal-entry writing is through the recollection of her dreams:
“…a huge gray owl rises up
masses of feathers and intricacy, yellow eyes; behind him
a cartoon woman falls from a lodge.” (Owls, 104)
I love this because it captures the disjointed, obscure nature of dreams and odd series of events. Why try to convey dreams in any other way than exactly how they happen? Very interesting, real, and effective writing technique.
I feel like Notley could coin a lot of these forms as ‘official’ under some experimental sub-genre of stream-of-consciousness writing. I love the idea of transcribing the mind and our thoughts in their raw form, in a way that harmonizes with thoughtful editing and craft techniques.
At times Notley dissects the ironies, culture, and craft elements in the art of poetry itself, which I find interesting. It especially caught my attention when Notley would then parallel, mirror, or contrast the art of poetry to herself. I find this powerful because in my perspective if one is deeply entwined with their poetry as most devoted artists are with their craft, the process of creating their art is also a journey of self-discovery and truly slipping into their own skin. Here’s an example:
“So glad I don’t have to write
in the styles of the poetries I was taught
they were beautiful and unlike me
positing a formal, stylized woman.” (Experiences, p.20)
She also parallels the effects of poetry to the relationships in her life. In the poem April Not an Inventory but a Blizzard, Notley writes about when she first met Ted. She says “I liked the way his poems looked on a page open but delicately arranged.” (30).
The language in her poetry is raw and real; it doesn’t try to lie, fit in, or be pretty therefore it winds up naturally beautiful, honest and impactful:
“I must leave the lot of flowers
to find a purple female cunt-lipped tree” (Flowers, 81)
She mentions “cunt” quite a lot throughout this book, which ties beautifully with the theme of unconventional femininity that she subtly addresses throughout the unfolding of her life story.
I could go on forever about this book. The subtle motifs of different-coloured sequins, articles of clothing, and crystals appearing throughout the work. The Egyptian theme and her use of recurring colours such as gold. It is honestly such a rich piece of work conveyed in mostly simple, honest language. The writing may appear random and chaotic but it is actually quite deep, calculated and laden with symbolism. Such an inspiring technique. How clever Notley is. It almost seems as if she effortlessly wrote this (and maybe she did!).
I try to avoid writing about dreams because of their surreal, fragmented nature and being unaware of how to weave them into a grounded narrative. After seeing Notley’s craft I’m quite inspired and humbled that sometimes the best way to convey something is the simple “tell-it-like-it-is” method, as opposed to trying to look for some craft technique that will likely shift the tone of the dream and it’s abstract nature into something far too real and tangible. I’m also inspired to play with creative and thoughtful stream-of-consciousness writing techniques at some point in my life when I’m more established, but at this stage where I’m trying to get published in literary journals, I might dodge trying to do anything too crazy.
Her poetry can be hard to follow at times, a challenge which I don’t mind, as it is highly personal, uniquely philosophical, and abstract. However, to me it is abstract in a way that a well-crafted piece of visual art can be successfully abstract, and not in a way that implies lazy crafting or vagueness.
A lot of her of poems defy conventional form by avoiding the use of punctuation such as commas and periods. This causes sentences to read chaotic, run-on, and builds momentum and energy, especially when there is no line break and the only indicator of a new sentence is a capitalized letter or sometimes nothing at all. It also reminds me of stream-of-consciousness and how often when we think in our heads, there is no proper punctuation happening. It’s often fleeting thought after another either linked together in one long sentence, or merged fragments. The most unique way I thought she defied form was through broken sentences:
“I came here so that the
I came to be equal in surprise to
I came empty-handed before being dried.” (Remember What I Came Here to Do to This World Very Little Actually, 133).
This is a poem conveyed in fragments, once again paralleling a very overactive, thought-processing mind which I think we all get some times. Even the title of the poem is chaotic.
Another way in which Notley feeds stream-of-consciousness, surreal journal-entry writing is through the recollection of her dreams:
“…a huge gray owl rises up
masses of feathers and intricacy, yellow eyes; behind him
a cartoon woman falls from a lodge.” (Owls, 104)
I love this because it captures the disjointed, obscure nature of dreams and odd series of events. Why try to convey dreams in any other way than exactly how they happen? Very interesting, real, and effective writing technique.
I feel like Notley could coin a lot of these forms as ‘official’ under some experimental sub-genre of stream-of-consciousness writing. I love the idea of transcribing the mind and our thoughts in their raw form, in a way that harmonizes with thoughtful editing and craft techniques.
At times Notley dissects the ironies, culture, and craft elements in the art of poetry itself, which I find interesting. It especially caught my attention when Notley would then parallel, mirror, or contrast the art of poetry to herself. I find this powerful because in my perspective if one is deeply entwined with their poetry as most devoted artists are with their craft, the process of creating their art is also a journey of self-discovery and truly slipping into their own skin. Here’s an example:
“So glad I don’t have to write
in the styles of the poetries I was taught
they were beautiful and unlike me
positing a formal, stylized woman.” (Experiences, p.20)
She also parallels the effects of poetry to the relationships in her life. In the poem April Not an Inventory but a Blizzard, Notley writes about when she first met Ted. She says “I liked the way his poems looked on a page open but delicately arranged.” (30).
The language in her poetry is raw and real; it doesn’t try to lie, fit in, or be pretty therefore it winds up naturally beautiful, honest and impactful:
“I must leave the lot of flowers
to find a purple female cunt-lipped tree” (Flowers, 81)
She mentions “cunt” quite a lot throughout this book, which ties beautifully with the theme of unconventional femininity that she subtly addresses throughout the unfolding of her life story.
I could go on forever about this book. The subtle motifs of different-coloured sequins, articles of clothing, and crystals appearing throughout the work. The Egyptian theme and her use of recurring colours such as gold. It is honestly such a rich piece of work conveyed in mostly simple, honest language. The writing may appear random and chaotic but it is actually quite deep, calculated and laden with symbolism. Such an inspiring technique. How clever Notley is. It almost seems as if she effortlessly wrote this (and maybe she did!).
I try to avoid writing about dreams because of their surreal, fragmented nature and being unaware of how to weave them into a grounded narrative. After seeing Notley’s craft I’m quite inspired and humbled that sometimes the best way to convey something is the simple “tell-it-like-it-is” method, as opposed to trying to look for some craft technique that will likely shift the tone of the dream and it’s abstract nature into something far too real and tangible. I’m also inspired to play with creative and thoughtful stream-of-consciousness writing techniques at some point in my life when I’m more established, but at this stage where I’m trying to get published in literary journals, I might dodge trying to do anything too crazy.
December 31, 2025
Alice Notley is a revelation. Read her in my Women and the Avant Garde class, and she was by far my favorite writer of the bunch. Her voice is unblushing and unhampered. Her direct address, her play with narrative and time, her use of dialogue – it all feels rambunctious and alive. Favorite poems were: "Kiss of Fire," "Requiem for the First Half of Split," "Prophet's Job, "As Good as Anything," "Diversy Street," I Must Have Called and So He Comes," "I-- Towards a Definition," "But in This World Together and Not Passing Away," "Sept 17 / Aug 29, '88," "Owls," "Bobby (First Visit Back to the States," "Going Back Mornings."
August 14, 2010
This is the first book that I read by Alice Notley. My poetry teacher introduced it to my class when I was a sophomore in the Residential College at UofM. Less than a year after I read it I went to study abroad in Munich, which wasn’t completely because of the book (my German teachers also had a lot to do with it), but I think the book helped to influence my decision. There is a poem in the book called “1979 A Dream” in which she writes:
We saints have a score of music
and as we sing some are “translated,” that is
disappear, a girl evaporates, into a plane of
some spiritual existence, of which I’m almost
terrified because the lack of self there must be total
Those lines stuck with me and made me feel as though I had to take more control of my life, assert myself more, so that I wouldn’t get “translated,” so that I would have more of a self, be more of an individual. There are poems in the book written from Paris, where Alice moved in the 90’s, and the fact that she, an American woman poet, moved to a whole different country, inspired me and made me curious about alternate ways of living, alternate trajectories for me as a young woman.
I knew that I didn’t want to live the life that was prescribed for me by tradition or the media so I thought if I went to study abroad it would put me on a new path, my own path. It just occurred to me that being on a new path is probably why I’ve had to struggle so much, but I don’t regret my struggles; they’ve led me to lots of things that I never would have encountered otherwise: friends, teachers, ideas, experiences…
Mysteries of Small Houses has traveled with me almost everywhere I’ve gone since 1998. It went with me to Munich and back to Ann Arbor, to Boulder, to Lake Huron, to Detroit, to New York, to the Poconos, to Maine, to Mexico, to Stratford, Ontario and back to PA. Alice Notley was a finalist for the Pulitzer Prize because of this book. The forms of the poems are mostly traditional, unbroken left-aligned columns down the page, but there is a lot of prosody; the poems sound like prose that has rhythm, music. I’m about to begin a critical thesis on the poetry of Alice Notley for my MFA and I could say a lot more, but I think I’ll stop here for now.
We saints have a score of music
and as we sing some are “translated,” that is
disappear, a girl evaporates, into a plane of
some spiritual existence, of which I’m almost
terrified because the lack of self there must be total
Those lines stuck with me and made me feel as though I had to take more control of my life, assert myself more, so that I wouldn’t get “translated,” so that I would have more of a self, be more of an individual. There are poems in the book written from Paris, where Alice moved in the 90’s, and the fact that she, an American woman poet, moved to a whole different country, inspired me and made me curious about alternate ways of living, alternate trajectories for me as a young woman.
I knew that I didn’t want to live the life that was prescribed for me by tradition or the media so I thought if I went to study abroad it would put me on a new path, my own path. It just occurred to me that being on a new path is probably why I’ve had to struggle so much, but I don’t regret my struggles; they’ve led me to lots of things that I never would have encountered otherwise: friends, teachers, ideas, experiences…
Mysteries of Small Houses has traveled with me almost everywhere I’ve gone since 1998. It went with me to Munich and back to Ann Arbor, to Boulder, to Lake Huron, to Detroit, to New York, to the Poconos, to Maine, to Mexico, to Stratford, Ontario and back to PA. Alice Notley was a finalist for the Pulitzer Prize because of this book. The forms of the poems are mostly traditional, unbroken left-aligned columns down the page, but there is a lot of prosody; the poems sound like prose that has rhythm, music. I’m about to begin a critical thesis on the poetry of Alice Notley for my MFA and I could say a lot more, but I think I’ll stop here for now.
January 8, 2025
Was very underwhelmed by this collection, which is disappointing given what a celebrated and prolific poet Alice Notley is. I just did not get on with the style of her poetry, which often felt very fragmentary, so that the association between image and meaning felt almost nonexistent—hard to follow a through-line in a single stanza, let alone a whole multi-page poem.
February 15, 2009
These poems hold the reader at bay, but not simply for the sake of doing so. As she struggles to render memories and self in words, Notley also struggles against language imposing order on experience. When describes the poems as collages, what is most interesting about the comparison (to me) is the idea of words as found material, refitted to a creative use. Somehow through her poetry Notley is able to remind us that experience is not fundamentally linguistic, but that we construct meaning using words and experience after the fact.
August 23, 2016
Sometimes being well read is a curse. You begin to see certain tropes repeated over and over again. Women poets write about family. Parents, husbands, children and lovers. Gaining them. Losing them. Feeling ambivalent about them.
Had I read this book ten years ago, I'd probably have given it four or maybe even five stars. As it is I'm beginning to wonder what is wrong with we women poets, we band of sisters, that we can't escape our relationships and write something new.
These are good poems. They're just not great.
Had I read this book ten years ago, I'd probably have given it four or maybe even five stars. As it is I'm beginning to wonder what is wrong with we women poets, we band of sisters, that we can't escape our relationships and write something new.
These are good poems. They're just not great.
November 25, 2008
Molly Peacock recommended this, and I just couldn't get into it. Stylistically interesting, but why am I supposed to care about your stereotypical adolescent experiences? It's like reading Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man without a main character. So many people love it, though. I must be missing something...
April 4, 2015
I do not want to return this to the library. I am risking fines.
As usual, Notley made me gasp and grab my heart. This book is full of grief and humanity.
"The night's full of people who are like us, but not
in their words for what happens: I feel closer to them than
to most poets but I can't live without our words."
(58)
As usual, Notley made me gasp and grab my heart. This book is full of grief and humanity.
"The night's full of people who are like us, but not
in their words for what happens: I feel closer to them than
to most poets but I can't live without our words."
(58)
January 10, 2016
(3.5)
"Bad I've been bad in this house
I've allowed burning inside me; I
remember my ancient dream,
in which a woman tells me,
'Your house only burns inside; it's
still standing...'"
- from "Not Child"
*
"this isn't nice of you I'm never
nice now
can't figure out how to be that if
I must
kill this man over and over in
order to
exist"
- from "The Tyrant"
"Bad I've been bad in this house
I've allowed burning inside me; I
remember my ancient dream,
in which a woman tells me,
'Your house only burns inside; it's
still standing...'"
- from "Not Child"
*
"this isn't nice of you I'm never
nice now
can't figure out how to be that if
I must
kill this man over and over in
order to
exist"
- from "The Tyrant"
Read
March 22, 2008One of the best poets working today. Autobiographical & visionary.
Displaying 1 - 30 of 35 reviews