WHEN A CHILD IS BORN

WHEN A CHILD IS BORN

And so a baby is born.

This must mean that the father is healthy.

Or healthy enough to tend for it,

Alongside his much younger spouse.

And naturally, all parents attempt

To fashion a particular world for their children,

But this father can print his own labels

Within the confines of his much maligned

Numbered house.  As the child grows, will we?

And how will the boy’s special playground

Be peopled? Will his Rockinghorse bridle,

Or will the numerous gifts he receives digitise?

Will they be constructed through craft?

And then be delivered by some form?

Of Amazonian Soldier;  let’s say, a brash

And blonde model, such as the kind Dad

Once prized? And what will this baby be like?

Will he resemble Trump’s youngest?

A thwarted Prince prowling floors in his own

Golder tower, or will the boy become expert,

And more properly schooled in deceit?

A boy who never tells the full tale,

And keeps his tuck and toys in the pantry.

As others fall hungry, this child will be

Certain to be able to both pick and choose

What he eats. For there will be real privilege

Here, alongside thick veils of protection.

It will not be his fault. We don’t choose starts,

But I wonder all the same, when he’ll know.

This is just the child’s second day.

And there will be time enough for conjecture,

But I worry even now who’ll advise him,

Supervising the thought wound within him

Along his actual temperament, as he grows?

When children are born, there is such

An innocence to them. There, in those

Moments, it is as if they belong to no-one.

There is no influence marked

As they emerge from their mothers.

There is no trait to engender

And no spirit to control, or trounce,

Trap, and numb. But with his father having

Been sick and his mother surely at some point

Infected, will the boy’s blood perhaps yield

The vaccine that we have been searching for?

Will he be a magical child? Albeit with a deep

Blue stamp tuning through him? A Tory Jesus,

Or keepsake to brandish proudly outside

A forever famous front door?

Or will he be used as just one more act

Intended to persuade the primed public

That those who lead us aren’t Lizards,

And in the general sense live beside us

And through the game of life and death,

Keep the score.

A child is a gift to anyone who receives it.

But it is also a method with which those

Without a heart, humanise.

Hitler loved dogs. The American President

Would birth money. This new British boy’s

A beginning, the start of a dynasty,

Growing, that through the subsequent

Cooing and crowing may yet prove difficult

To deny. Some people just aren’t the same

As their polished appearance presents them.

They will do anything to win over

The weakened regard of the crushed.

But a baby can’t know.  Though, Catholics,

Perhaps have this different. But in the new

Church to come within England,

The Original sins of the fathers and their

Subsequent sons shield in love. Much happiness then

To be wished as the Corona kid makes his entrance.

The milky bars he’ll be sucking 

Will flow from the former flavours

We favoured, the forgotten tastes

Of our childhood, that once led

And fed us, and kept us good and strong,

Turned to mush. 

David Erdos April 30th 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.