Hello, Poetry Friend
When learning a poem by heart, there's always one line that stops me. It's usually not my favorite line, but it's the one that most puzzles me. It's the one I have to journal through. In Joy Harjo's "Perhaps the World Ends Here," the line occcurs in the sixth stanza.
Before and after this stanza the images are grounded in the tactile image of a kitchen table and the people around it, through all stages of life and weather. She covers everything but Thanksgiving. And then Harjo does this:
Our dreams drink coffee with us as they put their arms around our children. They laugh with us at our poor falling-down selves and as we put ourselves back together once again at the table.
"Our dreams" are personified. They drink coffee. They put their arms around our kids. They laugh at us. They are capitalized.
Our Dreams are real. They are they, not it. Our Dreams see, drink, hug, notice everything.
I am writing today at my kitchen tabe, which was my grandmother's table and then my mother's. People have died (my grandmother and my mother). People have moved out, have moved in, have left water stains on this kitchen table. Our Dreams remain.
It's not about whether Our Dreams come true. They are as real as this table. They do their own thing, regardless of whether I drink coffee or tea or something zestier. Our Dreams are here while I sit at this kitchen table and eat and write. While I gossip with my husband. While he and I hold hands and pray of suffering and give thanks. Real as he and I are. Real as our children and our parents. Real as every dog we've ever owned. Real as the last birthday brownie saved in the real freezer. Real as my voice singing “with joy, with sorrow.”
Perhaps the World Ends Here
The world begins at a kitchen table. No matter what, we must eat to live.
The gifts of earth are brought and prepared, set on the table. So it has been
since creation, and it will go on.
We chase chickens or dogs away from it. Babies teethe at the corners. They
scrape their knees under it.
It is here that children are given instructions on what it means to be human.
We make men at it, we make women.
At this table we gossip, recall enemies and the ghosts of lovers.
Our dreams drink coffee with us as they put their arms around our children.
They laugh with us at our poor falling-down selves and as we put ourselves
back together once again at the table.
This table has been a house in the rain, an umbrella in the sun.
Wars have begun and ended at this table. It is a place to hide in the shadow of
terror. A place to celebrate the terrible victory.
We have given birth on this table, and have prepared our parents for burial
here.
At this table we sing with joy, with sorrow. We pray of suffering and remorse.
We give thanks.
Perhaps the world will end at the kitchen table, while we are laughing and
crying, eating of the last sweet bite.
– Joy Harjo
Poetry Journal
Read Harjo’s poem about the kitchen table. What did your kitchen table witness at Thanksgiving?
Jot down what you notice, what you like, what you don’t, what questions you have, and at least one way in which the poem speaks to you.
Read the poem again, aloud (if you didn’t the first time). Is there anything you notice this time that you want to add to your journal?
Write your own poem about your kitchen table (or another piece of furniture that has seen and heard a lot). If you like, email me what you write.
Happy poeming!
Megan
I love this, Megan. Joy Harjo's poem and how you related to it. I think I might be inspired to a "kitchen table" poem, very different from Harjo's poem so full of her culture. I do love sobremesa, so I'm off and running. As always, thank you.
Megan, what a thought provoking poem, as always. I love the images...I may be carrying some around in my head today. Thank you :-)