Poem of the week: The Wind Blows Through the Doors of My Heart - Deborah Digges

Hello again everyone,

Good news everyone: another week has passed, and yet my poetry reading has continued! This week something a bit more new-school, as promised. Deborah Digges is a wonderful American poet who sadly died last year. This is the title poem from her final book of poems, and I chose it for poem of the week because it is an example of the power of sound to evoke sensation. She uses combinations of sounds and words to create a sense of chaos and 'windiness' beyond the content, like the words in the poem are spinning around the 'rooms of my heart' even as I read them. What does it all mean? That's for you to decide this week. I'll let you know my thoughts next week. For now, just enjoy the sensation of reading it. Try it aloud if nobody's around!

The Wind Blows Through the Doors of My Heart
by Deborah Digges

The wind blows
through the doors of my heart.
It scatters my sheet music
that climbs like waves from the piano, free of the keys.
Now the notes stripped, black butterflies,
flattened against the screens.
The wind through my heart
blows all my candles out.
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.