Meeting Tara in a Café in Skala Sikamineas
Safe in the harbor, fishermen check their nets.
While we wait for the boats to come into sight,
we drink sweet chai and order omelettes.
She tells me the news, “two died in the night.”
We wait for the boats to come into sight.
“A woman in her forties, a boy of four years.”
She tells me the news, “two died in the night.”
I touch her hand. Our eyes fill with tears.
“A woman in her forties, a boy of four years.
Fleeing for their lives away from the war.”
I touch her hand. Our eyes fill with tears
while another boat lands on the icy shore.
Fleeing for their lives away from the war.
She welcomes all, hands out dry clothes.
Yet another boat lands on the icy shore.
Wherever they’re from, to their aid she goes.
She welcomes all, hands out dry clothes.
Then we drink sweet chai and order omelettes.
Wherever they’re from, to their aid she goes.
Safe in the harbor, fishermen check their nets.
I See You Smiling At Me
As I walk through this gate
I see you smiling at me.
Bright eyes, mouth open, mid-giggle.
Your brown hair tied back in a ponytail,
pink hairband, pink hearts on your shirt.
Just like my granddaughter.
Four year old girls—beautiful in pink
shining your light into the world.
You’re cuddling your little brother,
your arm around his back,
his arm around your neck,
cheek to cheek, as close as it’s possible to be.
Smiling and open-mouthed,
happy and secure in his big sister’s embrace.
Just like my grandson.
Little boys—open-hearted and loving
shining your light into the world.
Who could not love you, Yasmeen?
Who could not want to protect you, Hatem?
On the 21st of July 2014,
they flew their warplanes into Gaza.
They bombarded Jabalya.
They destroyed the al-Yazji family home.
They killed your grandparents.
They injured four others.
They took your light and your lives.
Who could wish you harm Yasmeen and Hatem?
The Golden Rule
Leave it behind.
Leave the backpack,
soaked in seawater,
drenched in terror.
Leave it behind.
Leave the baby clothes,
the disposable nappies,
the packets of biscuits,
the brand new toothbrushes,
the tube of toothpaste.
Leave them behind.
Leave the jar of eau de cologne,
the pair of nail scissors,
the metal coffee pot.
Leave them behind.
Leave the money.
The note worth 100 pounds—in Syria,
worth half a euro—in Europe.
Leave it behind.
Leave the backpack,
soaked in seawater,
drenched in terror
and trust in the kindness of your neighbors.
Lisa Saffron has been writing poetry since she was a child. Born in California, she moved to England in 1975. Her experience of being different has inspired her writing and many of her activities such as leading workshops on compassionate listening, setting up a charity for lesbian and gay parents and fostering children in care. She has travelled to Palestine and Lesvos where she witnessed the suffering of people caught up in violent conflict.
Weatherbeaten Literature 