The sculptor Carl Andre dabbled in poetry a number of years ago. Like the many examples of concrete poetry that were sprouting up around the same time, his poems focused more on the typographical arrangement of words rather than their meaning. In one untitled piece on view in a new exhibit of his works on paper from the 1950s and ’60s at Andrea Rosen Gallery, he divided a blank sheet of paper into four squares and typed the word “Now” into each box in a different position on the page. Is it a poem or a drawing? Mr. Andre is best known for Minimalist sculptures, and if we strain a bit, it might tell us something about his sculptural language. As a poem, however, it isn’t much.

In the exhibit’s other poems, sentence fragments are placed vertically on the page, or one word is typed over and over again in tightly packed rows across an entire page. Rather than shaking words free from their ontological roots, Mr. Andre burdens random words such as “green,” “black,” “bell,” and “time” with a pseudo-philosophical bearing, perhaps informed by his interest in all things Zen. Typing the word “green” on a blank page over and over again, no matter how neatly it is done, and even if the words form a clever pattern or geometric shape, might have been avant-garde in the ’50s, but looks a bit silly now. To see how influential this sort of thing has been, this blurring the lines between prose and poetry and painting and sculpture, one need only step into the main gallery and look at large canvases by Sean Landers. Mr. Andre’s three colored cardboard collages at the gallery, however, reminiscent of Ad Reinhardt’s phonebook collages from the 1950s, feel quite dated, no matter how nice they are formally.

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In her previous work, Julianne Swartz has used PVC and mirrors to allow people to speak to one another from inside and outside the same building, and has filled stairways in museums and bathrooms with pre-recorded songs and sounds that disrupt the normal passage of human traffic. But though some of the sculptures in her new exhibition at Josée Bienvenu Gallery include an aural component, they are all standalone works.

Most of the sculptures in the main gallery include a cement block base form with rigid and long wires sticking out vertically. Hidden in the cement or attached to the side of the base is a motor that slowly rotates or jiggles the lengths of wire. Ms. Swartz attaches little LEDs, flags, notes, and plastic bags to the wires, or she bends the ends of the wire and forms them into enclosed ovals or cutesy little hearts.

An angst-tinged humor is present in “Obstacle Mountain” (2007). The wire sticking out of the base is curved slightly downward, and there is a string and a small bag attached to it that inches its way around the base. The artist has placed a small plastic mountain in the direct path of the bag and it is fun to watch the bag struggle past it with each revolution. Ms. Swartz’s transparent construction process is combined with an awkward poignancy.

In the back gallery there is a sound sculpture called “After All” (2007), which consists of wooden frames with music boxes stuck in them with a sheet of Plexiglas with holes in it placed next to the music boxes. Little wire cranks pass through the holes and turn the music boxes when the electronics activate them. The music boxes emit single notes that harmonize in an eerie way or whole songs. The pieces are playful, but inevitably tedious, and it is difficult to remain in the room long enough to figure out if there is a distinct pattern behind the sounds and songs. Even if there were, however, it wouldn’t make a difference. “Open” (2007) is a wooden box that when opened, emits a prerecorded chorus of various voices saying “I love you.” Depending on the voice, the phrase sounds lazy, assertive, or pleading. The funniest moment comes when someone softly inserts the phrase “I like you,” toward the end of the loop. You almost feel guilty closing up the box again.

Andre until June 9 (525 W. 24th St., between Tenth and Eleventh avenues, 212-627-6000);

Swartz until June 29 (529 W. 20th St., between Tenth and Eleventh avenues, 212-206-7990).