I’M SORRY

I’M SORRY

If I write about a certain kind of loneliness now

It will be through an attempt to seem noble;

A soldier of emotion half fallen behind the heart’s

Crumpled flag.  Dreaming no doubt, of lost arms

That rescue me from the trench to which I have

Either fled, or retreated, as I remember the mouths

That once kissed me and not this distance

Which binds wound to wounded and in terms

Of the conflicts to come almost gags. To fight

Alone is to feel the divorce from communion.

Not just from a wife, but all people as you

Seem to remove yourself from the code,

By which most lives are set, or seem to be set,

Made in secret.  Suddenly, you have no means

Or password; you are a soft fall, or footstep

That has careened, misdirected from what you

Once thought was the road. For this is where

I am now, close to floating within my house,

Held insensate; a traveller beyond borders,

As the surrounding land splits and cracks.

I am holding onto each wall, even though such touch

Makes we wary, as no-one can say at this moment 

When the chance for even casual human touch

Will come back. Such as the briefest hug

From a friend, or a kiss from my two almost brothers,

Let alone that lost woman with whom I conceived

A child and life’s thrill. But those are just incidents

Now, so far down the track, details vapour. 

And so, as the sad Soldier stumbles, defeated

Along the war-scarred trail, love distils.

The woman is not who she was and her beautiful face

Will be older. As will mine. Those exchanges,

Which were the money in love are all spent. 

And so calmly crazed, I move, sat, through former fields

Of bright fire that rest within the dark’s contours

And the orders of night, duly sent.

Which command you to stay within dreams,

For this is where you live. You’ve been stationed.

At a point of no contact with the present and past,

Duty reigns. The battle’s been set: and it is one raged

With your own sense of purpose. With no one else

There beside you, no other hand soothes the pain.

The love and the line stops with you. For the family

Quarantined will at least have each other. The sister,

Wife, husband, brother, daughter and son, Uncle,

Aunt. Grandparent too, if they are not marooned,

Or in danger, each at least has a shadow under which

To feel warm. Now, I can’t. So, I must warm myself

By the wall, even if I do hear it tremble. In the war

To come, will fall dangers through which no loving

Touch can right  wrongs. But I yearn for it, all the same,

Alongside all of those who are also separated

By combat. The Noblemen of Corona,

And the Noblewomen too, Shakespeare on;

For it is a tragedy, yes, but a comedy, also,

In which the flick of fate may have cut me,

Just as my broken heart came to bleed,

Before the brandished altar of love,

That has for now found me lonely.

And so, I fight, stayed and blinded,

With memories as my medals.

These now are the rations on which a hungry

Heart comes to feed. I am sorry now for myself,

As you may be able to tell through this feeling,

As I spend the days’ span reflecting some of the images

I have lost. For the heart itself is a song

That soldiers sing while they’re marching,

As much as it is a mirror through which future glimpses

Of love’s next currency attain cost. I am sorry. I indulge.

But I fight, too. Don’t worry. Depression is a force

To win over. It is a line that is drawn and then coloured

In and then crossed. So, here’s to hope and the face

That eventually wins me. And here’s to the body,

Broken, but blessed, healed and shot.

David Erdos May 2nd 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.