My Little Poem: “Perhaps the World Ends Here” by Joy Harjo
When learning a poem by heart, there’s always one line that stoops 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.
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. 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. It’s as if Harjo says, With all this action, let’s capitalize our dreams, shall we?
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 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 carved wood. They do their own thing, regardless of whether or not I think they are worth coming true.
Our Dreams are here while I sit at this kitchen table and eat and write and drink tea. 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.
I hope that the next generation to own this kitchen table sings around it: “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
Over at Poetry for Life, we’re traveling the Hero’s Poetry Journey. It’s all about memorizing poetry for your life’s journey, especially if you are a mother. If I’d learned Harjo’s poem a little sooner, I very well might have put it on the list. Find one stanza you can tuck in your heart, for when you need it.
“Megan Willome has captured the essence of crow in this delightful children’s collection. Not only do the poems introduce the reader to the unusual habits and nature of this bird, but also different forms of poetry as well.”
—Michelle Ortega, poet and children’s speech pathologist