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| The Open Door by Helen McNicoll (@1910) |
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“How concrete everything becomes in the world of the spirit when an object,
a mere door, can give images of hesitation, temptation,
desire, security, welcome and respect.”
“. . . I have always taken that as a general rule of life: If a door opens,
walk on through and at least take a look around.”
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| Rock of Cashel, Ireland, Photo by Digital Eye 🚪 |
Midweek Motif ~ Doorway(s)
"Women lean on doorways!
Are they waiting, hesitating,
or holding up the world?"
I wrote those lines in a "Women's Movement" poem at least 35 years ago. I can't find the poem, but the image sticks with me as a place where two worlds meet, a place that is neither the kitchen nor the board room ~ a place where choice is possible.
"Door" is also the deepest root meaning of January:
January (in Latin, Ianuarius) is named after the Latin word for door (ianua), since January is the door to the year and an opening to new beginnings. The month is conventionally thought of as being named after Janus, the god of beginnings and transitions in Roman mythology, but according to ancient Roman farmers' almanacs Juno was the tutelary deity of the month.
Your Challenge: Write a new poem with a doorway motif, one with doors open or closed.
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| Photo of Cape Coast Castle's 'Door of No Return" |
Like the moon that night, my father —
a distant body, white and luminous.
How small I was back then,
looking up as if from dark earth.
Distant, his body white and luminous,
my father stood in the doorway.
Looking up as if from dark earth,
I saw him outlined in a scrim of light.
My father stood in the doorway
as if to watch over me as I dreamed.
When I saw him outlined — a scrim of light —
he was already waning, turning to go.
Once, he watched over me as I dreamed.
How small I was. Back then,
he was already turning to go, waning
like the moon that night — my father.
(from Thrall. Copyright © 2012 by Natasha Trethewey. Used with permission)
Thirst, Beacon Press 2006,
found at Poem Elf.
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| From The Princess and the Goblin by George MacDonald, illustrated by Jessie Willcox Smith, 1920 |
Doors opening, closing on us
Maybe there is more of the magical
in the idea of a door than in the door
itself. It’s always a matter of going
through into something else. But
in the idea of a door than in the door
itself. It’s always a matter of going
through into something else. But
while some doors lead to cathedrals
arching up overhead like stormy skies
and some to sumptuous auditoriums
and some to caves of nuclear monsters
. . . .
(Read the rest HERE.)
arching up overhead like stormy skies
and some to sumptuous auditoriums
and some to caves of nuclear monsters
. . . .
(Read the rest HERE.)
They sit together on the porch, the dark
Almost fallen, the house behind them dark.
Their supper done with, they have washed and dried
The dishes–only two plates now, two glasses,
Two knives, two forks, two spoons–small work for two.
She sits with her hands folded in her lap,
At rest. He smokes his pipe. They do not speak,
And when they speak at last it is to say
What each one knows the other knows. They have
One mind between them, now, that finally
For all its knowing will not exactly know
Which one goes first through the dark doorway, bidding
Goodnight, and which sits on a while alone.
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| Still Life with Doorway and Cat Berdichev - Polissya Region - Ukraine |
visit others in the spirit of the community—
(Sumana’s Midweek Motif will be ~ Poetry about the Body)
