A poem about Kitchen tables.

A poem by Joy Harjo and a list I wrote a year ago.

Hello friends,

The internet can be a murky place, we all know this.

But one of the many lovely things that came recently, was this poem forwarded to me by a stranger (as in that we have exchanged messages but never met) on Instagram:

PERHAPS THE WORLD ENDS BY JOY HARJO

‘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.’

I had never read it until a few weeks ago, but it reminded me of a list I wrote about a year ago whilst sat at our kitchen table (Joy Harjo’s poem is of course incomparably superior, but the sentiments are kind of similar):

‘The tears I have shed in this kitchen, enough to refill a table's worth of empty wine bottles.

The drawings and paintings of snowflakes and bicycles, scrawled at 4 am by candlelight on winter mornings.

The words of loss and love I have poured into faded notebooks, the laptop and my phone.

The conversations I have shared, some recorded, some only remaining in my mind.

The lists I have made on the backs of envelopes, trying to find order in our lives.

The baby I birthed as I leaned against the edges of the table, turning Welsh names over in my mouth, asking him which one he would like to be called by.

The hours I have sat, watching my internal film of memories, regularly interrupted by dirty dishes and demands for buttered toast.

The ghosts I have kissed, the light I have tried to catch, the darkness I have touched.’

Kitchen tables, they are one of the greatest romances of my life, possibly because, like a stage, they can host endless stories of love, joy and tragedy.

Java x