We are all, in some way, tied to points of origin. Sometimes, we call these points of origin "home" and sometimes we know and remember them. Other times, we have to trace back beyond the things our brains can remember to find where we began. Why we move through the world in the unique way that we do is abstract yet tied back to something more than ourselves. Sometimes we discover homes we have never known or can't even begin to recall. And sometimes, we ache in our chests and miss them anyway. Each poet included in this
post wrote on the subject of "home/
homeland/ homesickness".
The following poem is called Người Nước
(The Water People) and was written by Caroline, a high schooler from the DMV who loves creative writing, coding, and art. She aspires to integrate (haha) her passion for both STEM and the arts into her works to prove that these fields aren't as separate as they seem. You can find more of her work on Instagram @artimpromptu.
There live a people quiet and subtle
as the sloshing of sea foam on the shore. They crawl like crabs
to the beaches and piers, to the sand and the sea.
Sparse as we are amongst the cities and trees, we find ourselves
drawn to the waves.
Like Aphrodite, we were all
birthed from the sea—fled through the sea—settled on solid earth
away from the rivers and rice paddies and rain but we all come back to the sea.
You will not find us where it is dry.
You will find us tucked away in a quiet mouth of Virginia beach,
away from the tourists, bikinis and beach balls where nobody speaks but the
waves. Here, we câu cua—catch crabs—by the dozens, matched only by
children of the same mother tongue.
I spent my childhood searching for this extended family,
people who looked and talked like my own,
when I only had to turn to the sea.
Here, our people are not hidden in shadow, here
our language is not a foreigner’s code. Here, my mother learned the hard way
that a language switch may mask no secrets like it does at the local stores.
Too impatient to return to the boardwalk for relief,
here she murmured her intentions to tè vô nước, to which a little boy cried,
“You’re going to pee in the water?” and we see
the local lingo is our own. Where we are invisible everywhere else,
here we are everywhere, here at the beach,
at the diaspora magnet where the water people return
for the closest thing to home away from home.
Our word for “people”
stems from the streams and the eddies, người nước, water people,
sounds rolling off of your tongue like waves.
When the water people ask you
where are you from, they ask not about land but rather—
—bạn đến từ nước gì—
about water.
Untitled was written by Madalyn Ramirez,
who spends her days reading anything from Seuss to Joyce,
writing poetry, and working on her novel.
In her free time, you can find her attempting
to play the ukulele and scribbling in journals.
A red door, glistening with fresh paint,
A white kitchen, an abode of warmth and hospitality,
Fields of dandelions, soft fuzz clinging to infantile curls,
Lemon trees, fingers sticky with acrid bitter sweetness,
Homesick,
Not for the home,
A mere construct of wood and stone,
But for the comfort of innocence,
Naïveté,
The playful turbulence of youth,
The home of my childhood,
A hospital bed, rigid and unforgiving,
Cold gray tile, echoing the quiet sounds of death,
Foggy windows, cloudy as elderly eyes,
Not truly a home,
But a place to die,
Hearts torn asunder,
Adult troubles,
Death in a nursing home,
Home,
An oddly loose word,
Encompassing youth and death,
The simultaneous embodiment of joy and tragedy.
Must Give Us Pause was written by Roe Saxelbye, who lives in England. They spend their time listening to hip hop through broken headphones, taking long walks, and trying to communicate some sort of feeling through writing.
to sleep, perchance to dream, aye there's the rub --
to rub the soft worn fur of your old teddy bear
she lives on the other side of your room
and calls every tuesday, when you tell her you’re fine
nothing happened this week, nothing will.
for in that sleep of death what dreams may come --
sometimes you wonder what it is like to die
and on nights like this you feel immortal
dying in one's sleep is not possible, you see
when you have lost the ability to fall asleep.
when we have shuffled off this mortal coil --
you sleep in a mortal coil, a mere mortal boy
twined round a cobra of blankets
spine tied in a figure of eight knot
(make a man. poke him in the eye.)
must give us pause.
I'll conclude this post with an excerpt from one of my This Girl Is Not Easy to Read collection poems, titled Homesickness.
Somehow when you die, they will look at your heart and say
that it failed due to stressors, origins unknown
But your father will nod, place his hand on your forehead
and say "she just couldn't wait to go home anymore".
Thank you for reading.
If you'd like to contribute art, photos, poetry, personal narratives, or aesthetics to the upcoming March and April poetry posts, a submission portal will be available soon! Until then, you can email questions to seekingjoyandjustice@gmail.com or comment them down below.