"Ode to the Table"
A Poem
Having grown up in the Deep South, I spent lots of time around the table. Sure, we ate our meals there, but in our family—and I would argue in the South generally—the table always stood for more than just meals.
Foremost for me, the table is a symbol of the nuclear family. Being that families gather there daily for meals, the table also serves as a central family clearinghouse of expression. A place to talk and a place to listen. A place of discussion. Where you recall memories or wonder about the future. Where you connect and reconnect. And most important, the table is always there. It’s always present, conspicuously located and always welcoming.
The table is likewise a gathering place for friends and guests. It’s a place for great feasts and celebrations. A place for story telling. A place for laughter! In this way, the table is a symbol of the human condition. We’re all social creatures. The table thus serves as a catalyst for social connection.
Read Homer. Or the Bible. Or any history of any society of any age. The table is always present. For such a utilitarian object, the table certainly has witnessed much!
I wrote ‘Ode to the Table’ as a celebration of this undervalued fixture in our lives. For me, countless memories were borne around the table. Many punctuated by laughter, others by tears. Mostly, though, just moments connecting with family. And while such occasions are often unremarkable, when taken in sum are ever so meaningful. So for this Thanksgiving, I propose a toast to the table!
“Ode to the Table”
Table, thee, be long or round, Long overlooked, looked around. Only see your back to bear, Rarely, though, for what you share. Or what you are, or your worth. Centerpiece of joy and mirth. Sadness, too, and grief and loss. Leaders great that sat across. Some survive in myth and lore— Oaths the knights of Arthur swore. Or carpenter last did sup Bread and wine from chalice cup. Mostly, though, you live unseen. Ubiquity curse life's routine. Unjust perhaps, steadfast friend, Praise herein to you extend! Oh, rich your grain, pigment deep, Shouldered age and mettled feet! Fibers strong are lathed and long. Scars worn well mark days foregone. Elbows borne, along your spine, Knead thy grain so rich in time. Timbre, too, from deep within, Sweat and tears do salt your skin. Heralds heard, their words construe, Or whispers, slights, entre nous. Blood and wine, both do stain, thy Age’ed, rich, hardy grain. Tales told ‘round thy table bold, Glory sold in days of old. And ribald boasts, less than true, Did burnish thine noble hue! But, with age, age after age— Present forth on center stage. For all of us, every age Set before thus to engage! So thanks we give, table thee, Humble host to humanity. Centuries past and centuries fore Your central place shall endure.