“Perhaps the World Ends Here” (Inspiration)

I found this poem today and I have been enjoying breaking it apart, and thinking about the idea of a table as a place where home, life, and the world begins and ends; also the idea of the break-down of this very idea. Moreover, I have been thinking a lot about the importance of eating, communing with food near by or while conversing, and how food has become a means as a way to find ourselves and also can be a heavy negative.

I will be looking up more poetry by this poet; let me know what you guys think of this poem.


Joy Harjo, 1951

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.

“Elf03”

sketch005fin

Haven’t been drawing much lately and that will probably continue for this month but now and again I’ve been able to at least sketch something. Here’s to hoping I can sketch a bit more soon.

I’d like to imagine this is an elf gone rogue–a necromancer whose experiments often end in failure. But he still likes to look pretty; because, you know, we wouldn’t want to miss pampering oneself while raising the dead.