WHAT I SEE

WHAT I SEE

A possibility strikes: am I living now through these poems?

In some respects that seems joyous, as they rise and command

In some way. I used to think my life a stopped plot,

But now I have become brief television, something to be kept

In the corner and for others to ignore, or to play.

And yet we all broadcast now, both to ourselves

And our loved ones; witnesses at the window, sat on our

Laptopped thrones with low phones; waving while waves

Of a different sort rush to claim us, as the seas of change

Swelter and conspiracy’s force near cyclones.

If we could look through the screens, we would see

The pixelated puzzle before us; hints from the homeland

That we have come to fear as we wake, for puppets lose

Their thin strings when the ties that bind fix and fox them,

And they are forced to shop and to scavenge

Before somebody buys the last cake. There is then,

A mission to this and a means to keep writing,

As if each word placed in rhythm and in clear recognition

Of rhyme was representing the thoughts and the actions

I made when once useful. Will I be again?

That’s the question, in my little Hamlet of one

That defines. I have even considered my cease.

I’ll be frank with you and admit it. With no-one there

Now beside me apart from the voices of course

Of my friends, the unpopulated air sometimes folds

As I sit each day in this weather, either scorched

By that sunlight, or hemmed in by rain, thoughts

Find end. With the whole world on hold

While the cursed liars juggle, I romance former lovers,

And my parents of course, with sweet pain.

It clogs my breath, I must say as small summoned

Tears steer my gazing and I see my mother’s death

And my father’s, both of my Grandmothers, too:

Life’s sharp game. No-one will know. Just as you can

Never really know who is watching.

For now everyone has their own moment

That they must attend to and court, naturally,

So a poem is print, as a song is proof, or a painting,

Or any other bright fiction created that captures

The heart, factually. These poems are life and will

Perhaps remain when I haven’t. Either here,

On this object, or somewhere out there, in the cloud.

Where a form of transparency builds as it does

Through this window.  And the day strikes to show you

That what you thought was lost has been found. 

So, what do I see when I look? Well, I see myself

Looking for you. I wait for your answer but an answer

Of course rarely comes. For the moment our days

Are the same. We are all rhyming now, like a poem!

And we die each day through that writing

In order to rise once more and become

The seekers for those who will always be absent;

The people we loved in the old world

Now that this alarming new version, fast thrust

On us has begun.

     

                                      What I see is you.

If I tap this screen, will you listen?

Tap back.

Poem with me.

Love what we lived.

Kingdom, come.   

David Erdos April 29th 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.