We all are inquisitive about discovering the yet
undiscovered. Some of us do so as scientists, musicians, painters,
photographers, philosophers or poets. The path to discovery is the purposeful
peeping into what is partly covered by knowledge, dogma or experience. Thus the
first step is to find an opening, or in some instances pierce one through our
curiosity and eagerness to know more.
The symbolism of an opening can be materialized through an actual structure and transformed into metaphors. In poetry, most commonly an actual window or a door are used to uncover what is or was behind them. In every language I know there are poems about windows and doors, and perhaps by projection about balconies. I belong to the latter group of curious people who have written about balconies and what they may represent (1). In short, a balcony is an escape from the main building. A place of evasion from where one can watch the street and people below, a sunrise, a sunset, and keep memories of a kiss stolen at high noon or at dawn. If not stolen, borrowed for sure.
… I was reading poems by Carl Sandburg, an American
poet I like, perhaps because of some European influence his life attitude
adopted given the Swedish descent of his parents. I stopped on the page
entitled “At a Window”. I have read it many times before but my eyes lingered
on that page again. It starts by the poet asking God to give him hunger and
other difficulties, perhaps to test him. But the request Sandburg has is to
also give him the chance to be loved and experiencing love. The powerful ending
lines are:
“But
leave me a little love,
A
voice to speak to me in the day end,
A
hand to touch me in the dark room
Breaking
the long loneliness.
In
the dusk of day-shapes
Blurring
the sunset,
One
little wandering, western star
Thrust
out from the changing shores of shadow.
Let
me go to the window,
Watch
there the day-shapes of dusk
And
wait and know the coming
Of
a little love.”
The window is an actual one, but the await for love
is a symbolic gesture based on the experience of the poet. Suddenly, the banal
window becomes that opening to a hope and demand for the most fundamental of
our wants.
So, I searched for another poem I like, this time by
H.W Longfellow. This one is about lost love, lost happiness, and uses a visit
to his old house to remember the good moments and what is now lost. It is entitled “The Open Window” and we see
the poet visiting the home where he was a child once. Now he is there with his
own child, and he remembers the sounds and liveliness in that house he knew.
And looking to a window that hides no laughter or joy now, he writes:
“And
the boy that walked beside me,
He could not understand
Why
closer in mine, ah! closer,
I pressed his warm, soft hand!”
In this case the window is an opening for introspection
and remembrance. The quiet building is like a lifeless body and the open window
akin to a gaping wound.
… The symbolism of a window is different from that
of a door in poetry. A door has active expectation – to walk through it, to
have someone else walk back to you. A window in contrast, is a true opening
from which in most instances we expect feelings, actual light or memories to
come through. I say “most instances” because, as a health professional, I have
encountered many occasions in Asia and Northern Europe where a window is left
open for the room where a patient is taking his/her last breath. An open window
is needed for the soul to leave the room.
I have a tendency to end my literary reading by
going back to Rumi. His short statements seem most conducive for departing
thoughts that stay with me long after I close the book.
A few lines of Rumi do bring the concepts of a
window to love as follows:
“Moonlight
floods the whole sky
From horizon to horizon
How
much it can fill your room
Depends
on your window.”
And:
“Love
said to me:
There
is nothing that is not me.
Be
silent.”
… So I closed the book.
April 24, 2016
© Vahé A. Kazandjian, 2016
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