April: National Poetry Month

Academy of American Poets

Roses and Figs, by Paulette Tavormina, 2013. © Paulette Tavormina, courtesy the artist and Robert Klein Gallery

“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

I Was In A Hurry

Yesterday I lost a country.

I was in a hurry,

and didn’t notice when it fell from me

like a broken branch from a forgetful tree.

Please, if anyone passes by

and stumbles across it,

perhaps in a suitcase

open to the sky,

or engraved on a rock

like a gaping wound,

or wrapped

in the blankets of emigrants,

or canceled

like a losing lottery ticket,

or helplessly forgotten

in Purgatory,

or rushing forward without a goal

like the questions of children,

or rising with the smoke of war,

or rolling in a helmet on the sand,

or stolen in Ali Baba’s jar,

or disguised in the uniform of a policeman

who stirred up the prisoners

and fled,

or squatting in the mind of a woman

who tries to smile,

or scattered

like the dreams

of new immigrants in America.

If anyone stumbles across it,

return it to me, please.

Please return it, sir.

Please return it, madam.

It is my country. . .

I was in a hurry

when I lost it yesterday.

BY DUNYA MIKHAIL

TRANSLATED BY ELIZABETH WINSLOW

Hurt

I hurt myself todayTo see if I still feelI focus on the painThe only thing that’s real

The needle tears a holeThe old familiar stingTry to kill it all awayBut I remember everything

What have I become?My sweetest friendEveryone I know goes awayIn the end

And you could have it allMy empire of dirtI will let you downI will make you hurt

I wear this crown of thornsUpon my liar’s chairFull of broken thoughtsI cannot repair

Beneath the stains of timeThe feelings disappearYou are someone elseI’m still right here

What have I become?My sweetest friendEveryone I know goes awayIn the end

And you could have it allMy empire of dirtI will let you downI will make you hurt

If I could start againA million miles awayI would keep myselfI would find a way

— Trent Reznor

When I Go

Come, lonely hunter, chieftain and king
I will fly like the falcon when I go
Bear me my brother under your wing
I will strike fell like lightnin’ when I go

I will bellow like the thunder drum, invoke the storm of war
A twistin’ pillar spun of dust and blood up from the prairie floor
I will sweep the foe before me like a gale out on the snow
And the wind will long recount the story, reverence and glory, when I go

Spring, spirit dancer, nimble and thin
I will leap like coyote when I go
Tireless entrancer, lend me your skin
I will run like the gray wolf when I go

I will climb the rise at daybreak, I will kiss the sky at noon
Raise my yearning voice at midnight to my mother in the moon
I will make the lay of long defeat and draw the chorus slow
I’ll send this message down the wire and hope that someone wise is listenin’ when I go

And when the sun comes, trumpets from his red house in the east
He will find a standin’ stone where long I chanted my release
He will send his morning messenger to strike the hammer blow
And i will crumble down uncountable in showers of crimson rubies when I go

Sigh, mournful sister, whisper and turn
I will rattle like dry leaves when I go
Stand in the mist where my fire used to burn
I will camp on the night breeze when I go

— Dave Carter

* Wille Nelson & Judy Collins Cover

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