Listener. Lemn Sissay

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.

       RICOCHET

      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.

       DOCUMENTARY

      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.

       EVERY DAY LIVING

      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.

       EMAIL

      I shall be totally honest