The Wind Blows Through the Doors of My Heart: Poems

The Wind Blows Through the Doors of My Heart: Critical Reading

The wind through my heart blows all my candles out. In my heart and its rooms is dark and windy. And my dresses they are lifted like brides come to rest on the bedstead, crucifixes, dresses tangled in trees in the rooms of my heart.

Come the bees now clinging to flowered curtains. It is not for me to say what is this wind or how it came to blow through the rooms of my heart.

Wing after wing, through the rooms of the dead the wind does not blow. Nor the basement, no wheezing, no wind choking the cobwebs in our hair. It is cool here, quiet, a quilt spread on soil.

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But we will never lie down again. Thanks for writing about this book.

I will keep my eyes open for it. This summer I was at a reading where poet Susanna Lang read a sonnet sequence dedicated to Digges, incorporating lines from her poems I provided the voice for those , and it was lovely and haunting. Your email address will not be published. Notify me of follow-up comments by email. Notify me of new posts by email. On their way to banquet, they stop to assist the birth in a cold field, but it is the description at the end of the poem that leaves me gasping: The wind blows through the doors of my heart The wind blows through the doors of my heart.

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In my heart and its rooms is dark and windy. From the mantle smashes birds' nests, teacups full of stars as the wind winds round, a mist of sorts that rises and bends and blows or is blown through the rooms of my heart that shatters the windows, rakes the bedsheets as though someone had just made love. And my dresses they are lifted like brides come to rest on the bedstead, crucifixes, dresses tangled in trees in the rooms of my heart. To save them I've thrown flowers to fields, so that someone would pick them up and know where they came from.

Come the bees now clinging to flowered curtains. Off with the clothesline pinning anything, my mother's trousseau. It is not for me to say what is this wind or how it came to blow through the rooms of my heart. Wing after wing, through the rooms of the dead the wind does not blow.

Nor the basement, no wheezing, no wind choking the cobwebs in our hair. It is cool here, quiet, a quilt spread on soil. But we will never lie down again. Fence of Sticks audio only.

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The Wind Blows Through the Doors of My Heart

O, the dying are such acrobats. Here you must take a boat from one day to the next, or clutch the girders of the bridge, hand over hand. But they are sailing like a pendulum between eternity and. It fell to me to tell the bees, though I had wanted another duty— to be the scribbler at his death, there chart the third day's quickening.

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But fate said no, it falls to you to tell the bees, the middle daughter. So it was written at your birth.

See a Problem?

Many poems, though, seem obscure, unfinished. One thing that you might have done here is return to the idea of confusion, perhaps how the confusion of the opening is resolved in the ending and how you see that? Certain poets have spoken to me through the work from beyond the grave. The School of Solitude: Want to Read Currently Reading Read. For whatever reason, I haven't managed to finish that book, so I picked up Digges' last volume and read it over the last two days.

I wanted to keep the fire, working the constant arranging.