THE OTHER TROUBLE
THE OTHER TROUBLE
Of course, the trouble is now,
That there will be so many confessionals
Through Corona , that there will need to be
Founded fresh churches on still unruly earth
To contend
With the sheer weight
(and wait) within words that have sought
To countenance the depression
Under which we have laboured, seeking
Both relief from the pressure, as well as
Securement from some private guiding force
As our friend.
How will we bare it all
And move on? As many may want to forget it.
Especially those whose confessions as opposed
To confessionals have been housed. The darker
Partners that play when doors are locked
Through closed country. And where the former music
Of windows in showcasing light and view
Calls for cloud.
All at once, everywhere,
Ants and animals achieve congress;
We move full with function but we do not know
Why anymore. There are so many victims to count
Amongst both the dead and the living,
While those primed and placed on the front line
Try to keep us all kept indoors.
Policemen and women rake through the dead,
Gardening as they do so, as do the NHS workers,
When plucking the troubled weeds on the wards.
The unfairly rationed care within Carehomes
Has produced both selection and compost,
As from dirt gaining, the occasional flower
Bursts forth.
A new bill has been passed,
Granting the state its full power.
We can be checked, and forsaken, sampled,
Ransacked and displaced. The ‘Orwell’ digs deep
But at the foot of it, there’s no water,
Just a dry mouth declaiming the fading glow
Of each face. ‘In this breach each business goes,
Just like Michelangelo,’ A great poet’s paraphrase
And misquote which shows at once how
We’re failing, and falling too, the land taken,
Or ‘tableclothed’ under us. With the rug pulled
Beneath the elderly will soon slip and stumble,
As will the younger if the sources that funded
And the business that bloomed risks the bust.
Weak without work, we will not keep up
With the state of play that entreats us.
But is this where it wants us, as Covid 19
Bakes its feast? In 20, it came. Or supposedly
Came. It's been with us. But its only now
That its risen. And risen with what: fascist yeast?
Is there such a thing? Sprinkled fast across
The sediment that embeds us. With sentiment
Surpassed and quoted each day the same way,
Something warps. Something wails. Just like
The worst kind of siren: a cover noise
To command us that subliminally underpins
What we say. So, to my fellow confessors,
Just this:
It feels quite bleak.
The heat masks it.
And despite and the lack of Midwinter
This Midspring – if that’s what it is - bounces back.
This is Orwell’s World, Ballard’s world, though sadly now,
Without either. JG’s Crystal World crystallises, as 1984
Redefines what we lack. Even High Rise folds fast,
In order to contain Bungalows closed within it,
As towers aspire and then are quickly tamed
By attack.
Today, these are fears.
But what will they be tomorrow?
Because you see, the other trouble is worry.
The shape of things to come won’t be slack.
David Erdos April 17th 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 |
© David Erdos has asserted his moral rights as author of his work and has full copyright.
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