celebrating and creating our own LGBT history in honour of Sheila McWattie

Archive for the ‘submissions’ Category

day thirteen

Hallowe’en 1987

 

the tartan flash of your scarf as you appeared at the top of the platform at Euston

the beam of your smile as you ran towards me

hurtling a trolley to scoop up all my worldy possessions

crammed in cardboard boxes

 

the look of sheer delight across your face as you held my face

and we kissed

a long deep kiss

 

and a warm knowing glow hummed between us

as we took the first steps to setting up home together

sharing the weight of the wobbly trolley

up the sloping platform.

 

 

 

Fiona Thomson (age 58) Margate

day twelve

I’d know the split in the road

Gear down the confluence of valleys

Tighter grip to take the bend

His compression brakes and ring the bell twice for last homeward stops of excited moments to an ending.

This fortress, cloaks and shields.

Where we lay ourselves bare.

Front door, family, heat, quiet, company sometimes.

Cooking, home-cooking.

 

 

A collective piece by:

Janet Jones (age 54) Halifax

Nicola (age 48) Shoreham

Davinia (age 40) Shoreham

Tracey Daley (age 53) Hackney

 

day eleven

 

I’d know the split in the road

Gear down the confluence of valleys

Tighter grip to take the bend

His compression brakes and ring the bell twice for last homeward stops of excited moments to an ending.

This fortress, cloaks and shields.

Where we lay ourselves bare.

 

 

 

a collective effort by:

Janet Jones (age 54) Halifax

Nicola 48 Shoreham

Davinia 40 Shoreham

 

 

day ten

Ride

 

I’d know the split in the road

Gear down the confluence of valleys

Tighter grip to take the bend

His compression brakes and ring the bell twice for last homeward stops of

excited moments to an ending.

 

 

Janet Jones (age 54) Halifax

 

 

day nine

Home

Home is family,

Home is a friend,

Home is a mystery from end

to end

home is a house for me.

Home is a puzzle as big as the world,

Home is a house for young and old,

Home is a house for me.

Home is my family,

Home is my friend,

My house is the home for me.

Erin Lobb, (age 11), Horsham

day eight

 

I love my home.

I love the place that one day may be home.

At home in the Outer Hebrides maybe, will my first language return?

I love the memory of sleeping outside on the posh lawn of my old home, then later in the 80s sleeping with my clothes in the bed, so  they were not so damp on the up.

I love my forgotten Nairobi home and the generous welcome to a daughter of colonisation.

At home in the free (no charge) culture of the London southbank.

At home in a gay bar after a work do, when I am asked “do you know what kind of club this is ?”

At home in my holiday tent, with a stunning Welsh view.

At home in my tent that holds the love of the women who have shared and broken my air bed with passion.

I feel the luck that I can love my home.

At home in a posh hotel on the Brighton sea front, at home with the lovely women who perform sing and give joy there.

At home and privileged as I pass the tents, and the pallets and the tarps and the sleeping bags, and the people that the hotel permits to make a meagre home at its’ front, so the sun can shine on them, this day any way and give a little unhomely warmth.

 

 

 Harriet, (age 60) Woking

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

day seven

 

A death, a friend gone too young,

Words left behind – treacle if she were living,

But poignant given her age.

You are sad, and distant, cold to me,

Because of the calamity of our relations,

Before the wake we speak and you say,

I don’t think I love you any more.

 

I am stunned, but not surprised,

Tempestuous is the word for us,

Blowing up and out and all about.

Your temper, my critique,

And I have fantasised about being alone,

Many times.

 

But I won’t be alone will I?

I’ll have two teenage sons to raise,

A demanding job,

One son home-ed because of his inherited,

Personality. What’s best?

Two of these types, or one?

Better to focus on my son?

Or shall I keep pushing through my fourteen hour days whilst,

Keeping the peace, hiding my critique,

And fantasising about a home that isn’t shabby,

Flabby, grubby and worn.

A home in which only I take pride,

And you deride – I don’t mind that hole in the wall.

Deferred that shit onto me I see,

Your most rigorous quality, deferral of responsibility.

 

My new journal states,

‘I am what a feminist looks like’

I cried at this gift,

It felt like a slap, a wake up girl.

You have compromised your world.

 

 

 

Anon, Thanet