and that you have to pay attention, sit and listen,

that you feel you cannot clap or click,

sing or dance or move,                                                                         

that I cannot let you lose yourself in rhythm.

 

That I can’t buzz bass deep in your belly,

melt your skeleton to jelly,

that I will not lift you clear from your daily woes and fears,

fill you up with mighty BOOM,

slip inside, grip your spine, screaming anthems

designed to raise the roof and shake the room.

 

I’m sorry I’m not a musician

but if you really really want me to,

I’m sure that I could raise a tune.

 

I have this old kazoo, a triangle and drum.

You could hum, whistle, bellow

all together, and, you know, silver linings,

at least it’s not jazz or experimental techno,

there’s no indulgent solo that goes on and on

and on and on

and on and on

forever.

 

I’m sorry I’m not a musician, but

poetry’s an ancient art, older than the written word,

we’ve recorded history, told stories about odysseys,

adventures and injustice, buried secrets in our verse,

sent signs, coded words, for all the hidden ears to hear.

We get murdered for subversion, all across the world.

That’s how dangerous we are.

 

Let me listen to your heart, see scars,

taste the flavours of your deepest darkest 4am,         

show your shame the light, let it know it’s not alone,

hold hands with the ugliness inside

and give it succour.

 

I know you swallowed lumps for breakfast,

dinner, tea, and supper.

I understand you’ve suffered,

that you feel you’re always underneath,

never getting better, never equal,

that it’s easier to let it out, let it loose in movement

but I’m here to reap and sow the seeds of change

and write for revolution.

 

I'm sorry I'm not a musician

but if you absolutely need me to,

I’m sure that I could raise a tune.

 

I have this old kazoo, a triangle and drum.

You could hum, we could sway,

and though there’ll never be

a verse/chorus/verse, 3 chords, a middle eight

to break monotony,                

at least there isn’t feedback, an out-of-key harmony,

missed beats, pipes of peace or tambourine solos.

You know, silver linings, glass half full.

 

Let me alter your perspective,

change what you think a poet is to what you didn’t,

evoke, poke, offer gifts,

give you something different.

 

Let me love you with a poem,

wrap my lines and rhymes around your heart to lift it higher

for a minute/second/hour, know the power

that resides in a poem, not a song,

that a voice can be a fist

or a mitten

or a litany of wrongs that could be fixed

if we all stood together.

 

Thanks for listening.