Telegraph to the sky

 

Stay with me

when the sun rises

from a western sky

with silver spears lashing

at earth and our youth

when the eastern horizon

hangs smoke

as celebration to a fading dream

will you take my blistered hand

to a kiss?

That journey

between reflex action

and conviction

where moments flash

from substance to emotion

and where we count seconds as instinct

we live in times where we are against time

and impulse rules over us

as undirected, unelected factor

we live cliché as fact

and fact is cliché

to the one beat of change.

 

Will you stay with me

when I have no more hallelujahs

to your name

and instead offer dahlias

to your anonymity

when my knees refuse to bend at your beauty

but my eye of growth

raises an altar to your soul

that power that dreams awake                

the Brazilian forest                    

or in its strength of wish

re‑awakens our dead                 

at Kassinga, Biafra                    

or wherever your heart lives                    

among the innocent dead.                      

Will you really               

stay with me                 

when I stand up            

and sing to the world

its magnitude

its greatness

for an ability to turn itself            

upside down                             

while the inhabitants still believe             

in its constance

 

Unaware                       

that their heads are facing downwards.                

                                   

Nowadays                    

they don't hang you by the neck             

till you die.                   

They dangle you by the feet                   

till the blood comes to the brain.             

It's a high feeling that makes you reach for sky

but touch earth as limit              

as ecstasy                    .

of reaching some end                

because some journeys are so long                    

and much longer                       

when you live in a dream forest

called poetry.

                       

They say

it is not by bread alone that we live.

I know.

It is by poetry alone that we survived –

with poetry dancing on our tongues

we wiped the blood from our mouths

we charmed our torturers                         

we dangled freedom bells from our shackles

we made music out of sirens

we made homes out of prisons

we redesigned parliaments out of corrugated iron

we petrol bombed our angry past

we blasted our martyrs out of our brains

and we made shrines out of their graves

we weaved forgiveness onto our T‑shirts

and with last remaining droplets of blood

we tried to paint peace on angry dark skies

we silenced our solitude

we mated our humility with our anger

with hammers and chissels

we punched hope deep into our hearts

we swam, we danced and we played water games in our tears

and now,

now we wave flags so bright

sometimes brighter than our future

but stay with me.

 

Stay with me

when the jungle has no tree

when the wind has no breath

when the rain has no sea

the desert has no sand

the stars have no eyes to see

God has no mercy

and the devil is making barbecue out of the land.

Now, will you stay with me?

 

 

Stay, so that we sing    

songs from experience

we sing ideas from consciousness

and let's cultivate destiny

from the barrenness of this,        

this history       

Stay with me.   

           

Shall you?        

           

Please?

 

-- Sandile Dikeni