ON THE JOURNEY
ON THE JOURNEY
I once wrote a line in a play in which a character’s
Suicide note said, ‘Bored of shaving.’
Today, shaved, I’m bracing for an attempt
To renegotitate what we are.
To find fresh purpose, perhaps,
As everyone now becomes artists,
Writing away diaries, journals,
Astronomical charts for held stars.
As one of those who can’t work
Until occasion demands it,
I am shaping the day into corners
Within which any number of actions can hide.
And yet I also observe, or perhaps detect
The faint glimmers of possible futures,
With bare walls as mirrors reflecting
Some of the ways one might die.
For this little house is a tomb,
In which my body rests, blessed by treasures;
The books and music and pleasures
Of both repentant flesh and fouled mind,
The culture and calm and special language
Of music; the ages of film, books’ great eras,
Each surrounds me and comforts, revealing
Surprising grace, lifting blinds
That while lining my kitchen reveal a quite
Different location: one in which the man ages
As I can see him now, and remains,
Just as he is, as he writes and reads and looks
At you. With each home its own transformation
In a life of days that death stains.
One will have to ensure, if alone, that one
At least feels protected. I talk to different
Friends as they call me, or I call them
To check in. It is as if deserted by tide,
We have each of us made our own island
And are waving, hard through the houseplants
Signalling with clicks for a rescue
That somewhere we hope, now begins.
Stranded, anchored, somehow each little landmass
Starts sailing; the computer screen becomes
Porthole as the small ship David’s books
And stuff journeys on, going nowhere at first,
But still trying to reach its emergent Cape of
Good Fortune, one it still fights and aims for
Despite the indifference of some, the tide’s strong.
The name Erdos means wood in the Hungarian
Language its housed in. And wood floats once splintered
As I float now in my home. With memories of my Mum
And of my Dad constant with me, and the charm
Of friends, I’ll keep shaving, even if one does feel
Alone. As now most people are, even if just
With their worries. But do remember, in sailing
You have a dream of air and of coast.
My house is no pyramid. It is a bungalow, dammit!
As I look out for your family ocean liner,
Or your own small raft, here’s my toast.
That I raise as supplies as we feed each other
Each morning, by bread alone man is living
And woman too. Stay afloat.
David Erdos April 13th 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.
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David Erdos
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© David Erdos has asserted his moral rights as author of his work and has full copyright.
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