HEATHCOTE’S WILL IS THE WAY

HEATHCOTE’S WILL IS THE WAY

Heathcote Williams’ personal lockdown

Occurred throughout the final years

Of his living. The former rake and Poet

Prince of West London spent those latter days

Unconfined, while remaining mostly

In his upstairs room in Oxford, working away,

Writing volumes; ecstatic words that sparked

Towers of faith and belief for gold times.

His emphysema curtailed, if it didn’t cage him,

Completely, but with the beauty of his physical

Form unreflected, the poem mirrors he made

Showed what’s real. How he would have raged

Through all this, denouncing Trump

In a Trochee, and Johnson, too. In sharp verses

He’d have had Cummings speared. We would

Also, have had all the facts, prised and rhymed

With each shadow; mountains of research

Crushed to tablets that God would have

Whispered and scored for his ear. He would

Have set each heart to full sail as we crested

The seas he set for us; waters to rise

And replenish, as like him, we remained,

Not prisoners in our homes, but somewhat

Wary captives, keen on it all, stilled, but

Thriving, as like the Prospero he played,

His Word Island was a truly magical place

Free from pain. Heathcote Williams wrote

As most breathe, and he communicated

With the countless, as those he prized

And loved received letters and postcards

And calligraphic envelopes every day.

When he slept, I’m not sure,

For so many waves brushed his shoreline,

And while counting them he wrote

Of them and for them too, in full sway.

With all of the swagger and ease

Of the once wild boy of tamed cities,

Writing seismic plays inside cupboards,

This one-man psychedelic tore language apart

Like plump fruit. He would have exposed

The blown heart and let the juices

Run through his writing. As with his

Beloved Webster and Marlowe, he lanced

Each stopped line to bleed truth.

We need his voice more than most

And we need him back more than ever.

Tragically for us and his children

And his grandchildren too, we will not.

And there are so many others of course,

Who could have set us straight and wrought?

Anthems of both change and action;

Those cosmically caught star glazed authors

Of magic and sound, image, plot; indications

Perhaps that soon become premonitions.

For the prophecy in a poem is how it elevates

From the page. It is the means of ascent.

Sadly, this unique man and poet ascended,

But looking down he looks after the greater

Context now we all face. For life on earth

Is a draft, that life beyond is refining.

And he was always refined, polite, gracious,

As the breeding he dared stayed inbred.

So, this one vital man and his fountain pen

Summoned fountains. His words restore

When encountered, either through his

Mellifluous voice, or when read. His written

Will was the way. And his spark will always

Ignite our direction. When I think of our friend

Love still rivers, finding him alive,

And delivered, and supernaturally, far

From dead. For John Henry Heathcote Williams

Was a light that would scour through this cast

Darkness. A one-man drug, vibe

And movement that would have assuaged

Every doubt. He was Man as Day, as every word

He wrote coloured evenings. He was heat and

Hope flashing, just like the lightbulb I once saw

Him remove from his mouth. And so, I kiss you,

My friend. As all who loved you would kiss you.

Find us again, H. We need you. For now,

A new truth has been written, and as we wait,

Silenced, we won’t really know how to begin

When this ends. But what I do know is this,

That somewhere out there you’ll pass comment. 

On a manuscript made from Cosmos,

The great poet perfects it:

For even in death,

Love defends.

David Erdos May 23rd 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.