Celebrate National Poetry Month 2024 with 30 Days, 30 Poems

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.

^{Editor’s Note: Today’s poem was chosen by Erika.}

The last day of 30 Days, 30 Poems is always a little difficult. Usually it’s because I’ve struggled to choose a poem for today. What poem says everything that needs to be said? In the past, I’ve searched for hours, for days, choosing something, writing commentary, changing my mind and starting again. But not this year. This year, I knew exactly what I wanted for the last day of the month.

What’s funny about it is that I had chosen this poem even before the month began. I had no idea what mood I’d really be in at the end of the month, but here we are, with the one I knew was right. And here we are, ending the month and I’ve gotten a new appreciation for TS Eliot’s “The Wasteland”. I’ve shared Zoe Leonard’s poem “I Want a President,” which has followed me around since college. Adam wrote about Philip Larkin’s “This Be the Verse,” which we quote at each other often. And I made him laugh (and groan) when I wrote about Hemingway, who has been a ghost in my life this year.

30 Days, 30 Poems is not only a 2 Rules of Writing tradition, but it’s grown now to have stories and traditions of its own.

Which brings us to today’s poem. There aren’t many poems I can think of that make me cry a little bit every time I read them. And it doesn’t take much to make me cry. But this poem does.

We begin at the kitchen table. We end at the same kitchen table. And through our lives, although we drift away from that table, we keep returning to the safety of the table. It shields us from the sun and the rain. At that kitchen table, we learn to become the kind of humans who are good in the world.

2 Rules of Writing began at a very small table. In a bunch of phone calls and messages exchanged between Adam and I. After two and a half years, the project we have is so very different from the project we envisioned, but no less exciting. Every time I turn around, I find myself discovering another skill I never thought I’d have to learn, another experience I never thought I’d have.

My heart overflows with joy and with pride at how much we’ve grown this year. We’ve had to add leaves and chairs to our ever growing table. Not only that, but Adam and I, who are largely responsible for guiding this community have grown, as community leaders, as writers, as friends.

In some Jewish communities, it is traditional that when a child begins learning, letters are traced in honey and the child licks their fingers so that learning may always be sweet. We know that learning is hard. That sometimes at our table voices are raised, angry words are said and people hurt. The thing I keep seeing, again and again, is genuine compassion. People willing to listen. People willing to do the work to make change. “To learn what it means to be human.”

This website, our Facebook community, our Discord server, our Zoom groups, this is our table. If someone shows up with an open heart and an open mind at our table, there will be room. We will welcome them, laugh with them, dry their tears, patch up scraped knees and celebrate with them.

“The world begins at a kitchen table.” We’re still making room at ours. Find your seat.