Poetry is the opening and closing of a door, leaving those who

In the words of Carl Sandburg, “Poetry is the opening and closing of a door, leaving those who look through to guess about what is seen during the moment.” With this vision, the poet likens poetry to a fleeting glimpse, a sudden aperture between worlds. It is not a map nor a lecture, but a momentary revelation, half-seen, half-imagined. The door opens, and for an instant we behold something vast, eternal, mysterious. Then it closes, leaving us to ponder what we have seen—and perhaps, more importantly, what we have not.

The essence of this quote lies in the mystery of poetry. Unlike prose, which may explain and argue, poetry suggests, hints, evokes. It does not show us everything, but just enough to ignite our imagination. In the space left unspoken, the reader is invited to participate, to supply meaning, to wonder. The door of the poem never swings wide open, for if it did, all mystery would vanish. Instead, it opens just enough to reveal the glimmer of truth, the shadow of eternity, and then it leaves us restless, yearning, guessing.

History is filled with such glimpses. Consider the haiku masters of Japan, such as Bash?. In a handful of syllables, he would open the door to an entire universe: “An old pond / a frog jumps in— / the sound of water.” Nothing more is explained, yet the world reverberates in those few lines. The door opens and closes in an instant, and we are left wondering what it means: silence broken, life stirred, eternity glimpsed. Such is the genius of poetry—it shows without showing, it speaks without exhausting its meaning.

We see this too in the words of Emily Dickinson, who wrote, “Tell all the truth but tell it slant.” For her, as for Sandburg, poetry was never about full revelation, but about the angle, the hint, the flicker. When she writes of death as a kindly gentleman stopping to take her on a carriage ride, the door opens onto eternity for a moment, and then closes, leaving us to contemplate the mystery of mortality. Poetry gives us enough to wonder, but never enough to satisfy. That is its power.

The deeper meaning of Sandburg’s words is that poetry is an invitation to the imagination. The reader is not a passive receiver, but an active participant. The poem gives only fragments, gestures, doors that open and close, and the rest is left to us. This makes poetry a living art, for each reader, in each age, fills the gaps with their own vision. Thus the poem endures, not because it tells us everything, but because it withholds enough to keep us returning.

The lesson for us is profound: in life, as in poetry, we must learn to embrace mystery. Not everything can be explained, not everything should be revealed. The sacred, the beautiful, the eternal often come as glimpses, sudden openings of the door. Our task is not to demand complete clarity, but to cherish the moment, and to wonder at what lies beyond. To live poetically is to see these moments everywhere—in a sunset, in a child’s laughter, in a fleeting encounter—and to treasure them.

Practically, this means approaching poetry and life with openness and patience. Do not demand that every line explain itself, nor that every event in life reveal its meaning at once. Instead, accept the mystery, let your imagination play, and let your heart fill the spaces left unsaid. For often, what is most transformative is not what we know with certainty, but what we glimpse in passing, when the door briefly opens and closes.

Thus Sandburg’s words endure as a guide to both art and life: poetry is the door between the seen and unseen, the known and unknown. It opens and closes swiftly, and in that moment we are invited to look, to guess, to dream. Let us learn to live in that wonder, for it is there—in the guessing, in the imagining—that we find the true power of poetry and the true mystery of existence.