BETWEEN THE NUMBERS

BETWEEN THE NUMBERS

  

                           

  

Between the fatal numbers we’re told and the people

I know who don’t have it, there now rests the question

Of how to even out all these odds. As I sit and write,

Think and call, I discuss this issue with others,

But no-one of course can quite settle on whether

This has been organised or slipshod.

Then there are the moments of silence

That fall, caught between the noises of others.

At around five or six in the evening, a stillness of sorts,

Sits complete.  Thanks to the day’s inscrutable heat,

I am getting my vitamin D straight from sunlight,

As the skin on my Mediterranean arms moves

From chicken to a kind of slow roasted beef.

It’s a bewildering moment, for sure,

And one which can’t quite be held in a photo;

This strange peace that has fallen as the world

Divides behind air. The sun as sword slices through

At this equal time of war, unimagined, as we stumble

On, without moving, a masked darkness stains us

Through the sun’s disguise and fate’s dare.

Which is to turn our thoughts clean away,

As we bury ourselves  in our gardens. Or in books,

Boredom, bedrooms, as trouble is raged and love

Made. I believe that the thinking is we’ll accept

Some imminent strangers’ secateurs on our hedgerow,

Snipping at shape, while disarming the precise power

And point of the leaves. Which is to grow

And spread where they may and not align

To the shape since decided, and before the allotted

Number of branches, or flowers and weeds receive bees.

Everything feels designed as I look at the perfect

Photograph of this evening. An idyllic scene

Within England, with this my hour of calm

And bronzed skin.

While something else worms and works

And uncoils, snakelike, silent; something to strike,

Sting and numb us and against whose bite

We can’t win. But we can oppose as it eats.

For the calm is always the storm’s subtle servant.

And with the right strength to question

We will embitter the blood soon consumed.

To make the taste one less sought.

It seems the only hope for the moment.   

If we can sour here then their treasure

May become less appealing and return to us,

Albeit shattered, some former semblance

Of  what we used to recognise as a choice.

Then, a different bright new day

Would be marked, instead of this pause

And sly seduction through pleasure, in which

Kept like dried goldfish we do the improper thing

And lose voice.  Mouthing only pretence

And the repeated commands the news gives us.

For ‘Stay at Home’ feels like telling and also implies

Reprimand. You have been warned. So, beware.

This rapacious Spring is a Summer.

Time has warped all around us, and that’s why

In such scorching I soon receive my Gold

Hand. But pleasure passes so soon.

That is in fact, how its measured. With our days

Drawn by Rulers, we may soon become

Millimetres in some oppressors back yard.

The  trees look plump. The light plush.

As I sit out, graced by sunlight. And yet,

Contentment displaces, as not wanting to fear

Becomes hard. I am entering my sixth decade

And live at 87.

In-between those four digits,

How will the remaining days all pan out?

Or how will they peter and pan?

As I feel like a child, staid and playing

Today, I cried again for my Mother.

If she were here now she’d sort this.

I know she would.

I’ve no doubt.

David Erdos, April 27^th 2020

For more poems from David Erdos visit The Corona Diaries collection 

David Erdos is an actor, writer, director with over 300 professional credits. He is a published poet, playwright, essayist and illustrator. He has lectured on all disciplines in theatre and film for leading performing arts colleges, schools and universities around the world. His books include EASY VERSES FOR DIFFICULT TIMES, THE SCAR ON THE CLOUD, OIL ON SILVER, NEWS FROM MARS, CHANGING PLACES WITH LIGHT (penniless press) and BYZANTIUM with the photographer Max Reeves. He is a contributing editor for The International Times and maker of documentaries all over the world. David’s work has been acclaimed by many leading figures including Harold Pinter, Heathcote Williams, Alan Moore, Andrew Kotting, Chris Petit and Iain Sinclair in whose recent book THE LAST LONDON, David features. He can be reached at David.erdos@sky.com.

David Erdos

©    David Erdos has asserted his moral rights as author of his work and has full copyright.