Listener. Lemn Sissay
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storm – the needle!
Slow running from the red terror
Arms wide to protect yourself or welcome me,
Feet dragging through sand and globules of blood
Burning in the heatwave wiping hot sand from your face,
Men with guns on the horizon far behind you,
The past tense threatening your presence.
I hear a concert of AK47s click, as thousands
Reload. The heat is tremendous – you have a radio.
But the sound of sand lifting from the ground
In the grip of the wind, disturbs – you understand what is
happening,
Not through sight but through the sounds.
I could almost hear you, your breathing
As you gave birth again and another sister
Opened her eyes. Her wet face of sand.
In the drawing of this drama, the mist of mystery
Rising above the airwaves and heatwaves
We have scattered around the world,
Revolutions between us. Implosions of conscience.
Corrupting earthquakes have split our family – between us
Swallows migrate above the Atlantic Ocean
Pixellating the sky on tidal waves of heat
With such damnable ease.
And amongst the purple rain and stormy airwaves
Radio waves like flocks of swallows or the flamingos of
Lake Tana
That seem to fly out from the reflecting solar wind
Land upon both of us with feather-wing ease,
Bringing my world to yours and your world to mine.
And now that we meet,
The sand storm lays low.
Like a pride of lions
After the chase,
The sun rises, its golden mane shakes.
You tell me, ‘I heard a poem on the World Service,’
And I finally, face to face, get to tell you
It was me
Tuning in through the hissing noise
To you tuning in to me.
A man shot a man who was a father,
The son of the dead father shot the father of the other son
Who was the man who had shot the first father.
Then I was born – I was told it didn’t matter
’Cause time had passed.
But my uncle who was holding the pain
Of his dead brother – who was my father –
Said he couldn’t forgive because every year,
Every minute of every day he loved his brother
And consequently there was a score to settle.
I am living here because there was a revolution
And some say this was why the man killed the father in
The first place – our family lost our property.
But I can go back – I am a man now.
The son of the neighbour who was the original killer
Was living in our house at home, said that he owned it now.
My uncle travelled back, to our homeland, but no longer,
No longer felt at home in his own homeland. He took a gun
Which was owned by an old friend of the counter-revolution
And shot himself. And the neighbour who was the son of
The man who I was told was a killer told me, at his funeral
That his dad hadn’t shot first that my dad had.
This is – face blurred to defend identity
And he says – actor’s voice
These are his friends – faces blurred to protect identity
And his parents – actors’ voices, faces blacked out
Who live near – not real name of town
Who drive – licence plate obscured
Have said that they believe their son – face blurred to
defend identity
Will return to – not real village name
But they will keep looking for – not real name.
The father – actor’s voice – says he is
Innocent of the social services charges – actor’s voice.
The events in this report have been changed to protect the
identity
Of those included.
If you have any information about – blurred face, fictitious
name
And you live in – fictitious village to protect parents
Then please contact us at – blurred number.
Another day flies, another brother dies,
Another mother haunts her home with her own cries,
Another man falls to another chant and call
From another racist neighbour behind another thin wall.
Another sleeps well through another night of hell,
Another tranquilliser and no one can tell
That yet another dream was not what it seemed,
More a paper veil for a hollow of screams.
Another sister flies from the building in the skies
Clutching another catalogue of clothes she couldn’t buy.
Another suicide, another broken inside,
Another written letter for the parents to hide.
Another dream shatters as another man batters
Hope from the eyes of a woman that matters.
Another crack alarm, another track in the arm,
Another vein hides from another shot of calm.
Every day living, every day I give in,
Every day I wake up to a new beginning.
I shall be totally honest