Listener. Lemn Sissay
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sound before a dropping latch,
The sound of looking back – the 22nd catch.
This is a celebration of sound,
Words said after the phone’s put down,
After the door’s shut at the editor’s cut –
Thoughts held after the word ‘but …’;
This is the sound before death;
In the beginning it wasn’t the word,
It was breath.
As long as they think they can push you
Around with unwritten laws
Saying which kind of car you can drive,
Which woman you can date,
Which occupation you can take,
Or which street you can live in,
You are not safe.
As long as they think they can push you
Around with unwritten laws
Saying how your name should be shortened,
Which food you should eat,
Which way you should wear your hair,
Which house you should live in,
Which language you should use,
You are not safe.
As long as they think you are a target
They will take aim.
As long as they think they can push you
Around with unwritten laws
About which country you should live in,
Which smell you should prefer,
Which restaurants you should eat in,
Which places you should go to at night,
Which cricket team you should support,
Or which route your child or friend should
take to school,
You are not safe.
As long as they think you are a target
They will take aim.
Do not get used to these thoughts,
Do not engage with them,
They will devour you.
Do not wear them or grow with them,
Do not challenge them or walk in them,
Do not counter them.
We should prepare for arguments,
Lay down the tablecloth
And silently place the cutlery
In exactly the right place.
We should serve each other’s food
And eat with our hands,
Pick at the chicken,
Maul the potatoes.
We should then wipe our mouths
With the tablecloth and begin.
You are so perfect
When you kick them the leaves flit to the trees,
Look back to you and applaud.
You are so perfect
Branches part in forests to share sun’s shine,
Squirrels watch you between acorns,
Foxes wake.
You are so perfect
Your winter coat buttons itself and hugs your heart,
Library books unfurl on tables, stretch
And wait for you to walk past.
Fast winter wind daren’t touch you
But can’t help brush your hair.
You are so perfect
Rivers have built their own bridges,
Knowing that one day you’ll walk across them –
Just to catch your reflection they left a pile of stones for
you to throw.
And the waves carry each stone to the bed, count them,
Look up at you and applaud.
You are so perfect
Traffic lights time themselves days before you arrive
So your stride won’t be broken and the cars can rest
And the world can stop.
A table outside the café lays itself to the waiter’s amazement
Knowing that a man will stop for a coffee,
Knowing that you will walk past at 3.30 p.m.,
And he’d been waiting for you all of his life too.
And if you were the evaporating tears
Then I would be the developing cloud.
There, the sound of rain,
The sound of the between-us-sea,
The shingle shore gently fills our footsteps.
I have searched for you my entire life.
We have stood on opposite shores
Listening to under-sea wails.
No translations as yet, but this.
I lie upon the earth-floor
As a lion might in deep dusk-sun.
Here I hear all the footsteps of the world
Reverberate in the beneath-me-rocks,
Trying to find your first person singular steps,
Trying to find a sentence in a history,
But the needle glints in the golden haystack
Of dawn at the same time a strike of sunlight
Lances its eye. The world is smaller,
The larger my knowledge – still.
Standing, I hear the sun rise,
Not the birds of morning nor the cock crowing.
The cars coughing the footsteps of early workers
Muffled in the red dust trudging through sleepless mystery
But I hear the actual sun rising.
And as a sea can turn to dust before the eyes