“You
just go where poetry is, whether it's in your heart or your mind or in books or
in places where there's live poetry or recordings.”
– Joy Harjo
Born
in Oklahoma on this date in 1951, Harjo is a poet, musician, playwright,
author, and the first Native American United States Poet Laureate. 
A member of the Mvskoke Nation who belongs to
Oce Vpofv (Hickory Ground), she has taught in numerous universities, performed
at poetry readings and music events, released 5 albums of her original music, and
authored 9 books of poetry and 2 award-winning children's books. For Saturday’s Poem, here is Harjo’s,
A member of the Mvskoke Nation who belongs to
Oce Vpofv (Hickory Ground), she has taught in numerous universities, performed
at poetry readings and music events, released 5 albums of her original music, and
authored 9 books of poetry and 2 award-winning children's books. For Saturday’s Poem, here is Harjo’s,
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.
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.
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