One long poem
Printed on the front. Long enough to reread with a second coffee, short enough to fold twice.
Est. small hours
Poems that arrive
by post, at hours
nobody keeps.
Once a month we fold a small letter — a poem, a fragment, sometimes a pressed leaf — and drop it in the box. It travels the ordinary way, on paper, with a stamp, to your actual door.
from the desk of —
The Editors, 3 AM Poetry Club
No. 12 Post Lane · Somewhere quiet · Overnight
to —
(a reader, presumably still awake)
— about the club —
A small society for people who still like opening the mailbox.
The 3 AM Poetry Club began as a habit — three friends trading poems on index cards through the mail slot. It grew, quietly, the way small things do.
Every letter is put together at a kitchen table between three and five in the morning, when the street is empty and language behaves. There is no algorithm, no feed, no inbox — only the reliable, unremarkable magic of a stamp and a walk.
- ◍ one letter, monthly
- ✦ handset & folded
- ✉ posted worldwide
- ☾ read at any hour
— what's inside —
The Letter
A short list of what tends to fall out when you open one.
Marginalia
Handwritten notes in the margins — a reference, a quarrel with a line, a question we couldn't answer.
Something small
A pressed petal, a Polaroid, a translated fragment, a recipe. Something that only exists on paper.
— join us —
We'd love to write to you.
Membership is a small yearly gesture that covers paper, postage, and the odd pressed flower. Tell us where to send the letters and we'll do the rest.
Subscribe by mail✉or reply to any letter, always
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