In keeping with the zine’s theme of “culture”, “home” was decided upon as a good place for the late night poets and their club. Locations of homes, origination of homes, homes made of objects and people. There are endless possibilities. To submit your poetry, please email firstname.lastname@example.org. And now, your Late Night Poetry Club.
WHERE YOU ARE by Caitlin Robinson
Do you belong to the present
Or to past long forgotten
You could be lost in a dream
A foreign oasis
And time wouldn’t matter
And neither would spaces
Because home is where you make it
by Bridgette Jameson
“Halito, Hlampko Chahta Ummi ulla…
Your struggles, great
Your heart, strong”
The voices of Mother Earth
I hear them
above the hurt
She speaks to me
And whispers to my heart
“Ho-minti,” she says
“Come on, si aikaya”
Mother shows the wonders
of a world
And tells me stories of people
many try to push
to the past
Soft whispers remind me
“No matter where you go
you’ll always have a home
So long as you take care of me”
by Caitlin Robinson
10:28PM- Sometimes I don’t feel like I’m at home.
Don’t get me wrong, I love my family and friends and everything. I just find myself procrastinating a little from work and then suddenly I’m playing Varsity – So Sad, or Pity Party, or American Football’s album comes on and I remember that I have feelings. Like, I am a human who feels emotion and ugh sometimes I want to scream but then I want to be so nice to everyone and treat everyone well because everyone deserves that and you shouldn’t let your bad mood negatively impact on someone else’s day. I guess what I’m saying is, at these times it’s like a crazy wave of feeling that sweeps over you, and sometimes it’s just not the right time. Like maybe your mum’s in the next room chatting on the phone or your brother comes into your room without knocking (Seriously, why?) and you can’t just be lying on the floor too overwhelmed with your thoughts to have even drawn the curtains, and you’re so far gone from the present you haven’t realised that the sun has set and you, in fact, appear pretty insane lying on the floor in the dark, maybe crying or feeling sad for the world.
And so generally we try to avoid finding ourselves in that situation, and when we want to cry or tear up a book or punch a teddy in the face we can’t and that is why sometimes I don’t feel like I’m at home.
by Mabel Wattam
We never knew why
He cried out every night
From an anonymous roof,
Just as the last few returned
Circling, blotting out the moon
Before landing on their shadows,
While packets of us lie snug
Back-to-back in the pits, railways,
Atop the red brick you were born in.
With his throat jemmied open, out leak
Bouncing cans, clouds of exhaust,
Brown coppers with a guttural ring
Ferrous as nails until morning begins,
And we all lean to the fields
To scatter on the clover,
Then back to the air so black
You could lick the coal from it,
But he didn’t tell, for he couldn’t stay
And now we know not, the night from the day.
* Made of words from Liz Berry’s Homing, Kat Ryan’s Home to Roost, John Mole’s Coming Home, Michael Laskey’s Home Movies, Adam O’Riordan’s Home: A Double Washstand, Robert Browning’s Home Thoughts, From Abroad, and Dorothea Smartt’s Home.