BANKED HOLIDAY

BANKED HOLIDAY

Have we settled too soon? As the days lose shape

We do also. We talk of plans, fresh dimensions,

But where is it we should go? Towards a new,

Much feared state, or a simulacrum of behaviour,

In which our white shadow in reflecting former light

Fails to glow? For this is a time we’ve not seen,

Or possibly even predicted, having previously

Consigned it all to a fiction and to a genre

That keeps change at bay. But now those past

Dissolves cover us, as the montage of souls

Forms a feature of indeterminate length;

A fresh epic, as TV tries to Veejay and thus

Revive VE Day. The celebrations astound

As the false bonhomie binds us. Those stirring

Songs sent to serve us in this new hour of need

Lose their thrill. The patriotic wrapped up in several

Strains of indulgence, encouraging  the frustration

Of movement in those who do not know why

They’re still. People came through Word War Two,

But now a new one has started. A war

Of understanding, engagement and a desperate

Need to connect.  Matt Hancock bumbles

His brief, when those who fought before

Did not do so. From Churchill onto Atlee

There was a spirit there present that no-one

Who survived could forget. Where then, are those

Who would lead? I think of the relative disappearance

Of Bore-is. A well-timed bout of illness and then

A face-saving birth feels designed. Of course,

Life happens at will, but also at whim, let’s be honest.

As the old songs are amped up and near murdered,

‘Knees up, Mother Brown’ feels like rape.

Everything  is trapped, tidied, trained, as if you could

Place a box around feeling, tying hope up with ribbons,

Or stopping sharp mouths with masked tape.

I honour all pasts but this level of commemoration

Confuses, for while we are all held in this struggle,

The enemy we face is not clear. They now wear

Many masks as the ranked and filed rise against us

And the glittering glass has grown misted

As a vaccine thirst swelters in this and the next

Hemisphere. We struggle. We strain and we do not

Come out fighting. Instead there are orders,

And investments, too, that stack up. We have become

Scared as defeat threatens to become a life option.

The chalice, we know has been poisoned

And yet many would still lift the cup.

Waiting for benediction, perhaps, or for that lost

Taste of freedom, which has started to fade

As a flavour as those holds we once had start to fray.

And yet the empty river flows on, taking with it

Sensation, that and the costs we’ll be paying,

As stand, or sink, strive and swallow,

Our credit feels hollow on this entirely

Banked holiday. Dame Vera Lynn is alive.

And she may well outlive England.

Or the England she knew and sang over,

Across those chalk cliffs at Dover

And the country’s cloud hope dispelled.

But now no song seems to fit.

So all we can do is keep singing.

Until new words rise to capture

Our true worth and freedom.

Perhaps that’s why I write.

I’m compelled.           

 David Erdos, May 9th 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.