Poetry, the speaker explains, requires much of its poets. Most importantly, it requires a sense of vulnerability that he metaphorically compares to an “open house” with doors left “widely swung.” In short, it requires that poets willingly expose the truths of their deepest selves for the viewing pleasure of the public.

According to the speaker, this need for complete transparency leaves him feeling “naked to the bone.” The phrasing speaks for itself. The image of nudity conjures a sense of discomfort, and “to the bone” relies on a phrase often used in conjunction with negative feelings that cut to the core of one’s being, as in “chilled to the bone” or “soaked to the bone.” Despite this less-than-desirable phrasing, the speaker is careful to note that this nakedness also acts as his “shield.” It offers some form of protection, and he finds some cathartic satisfaction in this exposure. At once, vulnerability inspires feelings of fear and unhappiness in the speaker while also evoking a sense of contentment and satisfaction.

Indeed, if the speaker were to reject the openness that poetry requires of him and chose not to keep his “spirit spare” by communicating his feelings in writing, he would not be able to write. He must keep himself “open” to receive and transmit the truth, even though this spiritual vulnerability may cause him pain. 

By the end of “Open House,” readers have gained a sense of the emotionally draining process that poetry writing requires. The first stanza introduces the act of writing through a personified metaphor that figures the speaker into an embodied house; by the final stanza, this elegant metaphor has dissolved, and the quality of the rhymes has audibly declined. The speaker’s change in tone seems to indicate a lack of control, and the “widely swung” doors kept open to reveal his inner truths seem to be damaging, leaving him in a state of “witless agony.”

To readers, this may seem extreme. For the speaker, however, the “rage” and pain of poetry are to be expected. Exposing his deepest truths and exhibiting his vulnerabilities to an audience is a requirement for poets. Less than a person, he has become a conduit for poetry, channeling his “anger” and “deed[s]” as they come from within him and outside of him simultaneously. This open vulnerability makes him sensitive to the world, but it also allows him to “stop the lying mouth” and speak with truth and honesty; the martyrdom of the poet is a necessary sacrifice in the pursuit of the craft. 

Knowing the demands that poetry makes of its writers, the speaker continues, bearing the turbulent duality of the equally cathartic and agonizing art form with little complaints. He writes of the anguish that baring himself to the voyeurism of an audience causes; he tempers this knowledge with the beauty of “language strict and pure” that is capable of communicating the truth of his sorrow, joy, and anger.

The poet is composed of contradiction. His spirit is kept “spare,” as all of his “secrets” “cry aloud” and beg to be heard and understood. He feels as if his craft has cracked him open and stripped him “to the bone,” but he also finds that this flaying effect can be a “shield.” In short, the poet understands the duality of poetry’s painful, gratifying demands and pursues it anyway. The “agony” of writing is undercut by the glory of “the truth.” Indeed, even though he must face the “anger” that comes from within and outside of himself, he revels in the act, for it allows him to “stop the lying mouth” of others unwilling to bear such pain.