Doors and Windows
Through the Ages
As you walk the streets, whether in your home town or in a foreign land, do you notice the myriad of different doors and windows?
Do you wonder what is behind them?
They come in all shapes, sizes and colours.
Some are as ancient as history itself and have stood the test of time with many a soul wandering through them or peering in, or out, of them.
This book is a short photo essay of some of the doors and windows I have come across in my travels across our globe where each has fascinated me about the stories they could tell. A few are within the context of a complete building. Alongside the photos I have curated a number of poems related to doors and windows which I have found on the Internet.
Kevin Payne
Go and open the door. Maybe outside there’s a tree, or a wood, a garden, or a magic city.
Go and open the door. Maybe a dog’s rummaging. Maybe you’ll see a face, or an eye, or the picture of a picture.
Go and open the door. If there’s a fog it will clear.
Go and open the door. Even if there’s only the darkness ticking, even if there’s only the hollow wind, even if nothing is there, go and open the door.
At least there’ll be a draught.
Miroslav Holub
i see a doorway and a window both right next to each other through the door lie many other doors some are already closed but many more open so many possibilities and then there is a window if i choose that i could be free free of all worries and problems free to go and do whatever i want which one to choose? the choice is all mine once the choice is made though, i can never turn back
my mind makes for me a window then a door
makes for me marrow or an inside filament
figment or sepulcher sculpture monument or inside cave
slips of windowpanes—yawning at the seams or permanent fixture green lathe or marrow or nested
an interior door ajar though mesh so more sieve than door nest of open windows does the mesh make
a structured or strident city grid meets girth meets exurb the monument makes for me a relic or fixture a fixture then plaque gilded and scapula, evergreen aseptic gaps could the flowers make
my mange makes for me a dinner, softened inside any gilded mouth mostly cavity or crown bridge or gully a monument to marrow and what runs inside it, oxygen to further a future
stove top or otherwise step inside or at the hem
my manager gathers the marriage of order of alliums and almost and soft cells and tender and tender and strident the window
my mind makes for me marrow or filigree the intricacies delivered by the minute the marrow creates and feeds a steady stream both a summer and a selfless season
silent or apparition or the noise could speak
all brackish and woven warp weft and still life each a degree of the aperture
my mind makes for me a thin, tame vine settling into its tangled rope woven up inside the cavernous glass tubes climbing up the façade then inside through a pitched roof window what work what worth
my mind makes for me a window, brushstroke, or way out scraping back gold filament door or otherwise a fixture or otherwise filmed futures
Between the sunrise and me there’s a window. So I greet my old friends the morning air and the horizon’s pencilled line. Those clouds are gossiping about a secret rendezvous. I say hello to that dear memory.
Between my love and me there’s a window. I gaze out into Spring through the eyes of someone who loves flowers, whose dreams are hindered by the little dreams of flowers –dreams of loss, dreams of goodbye.
Between God and me there’s a window and I have named it Galilee.
Doors and Windows
Through the Ages
