MONDAY MOURNING

MONDAY MOURNING

Some have returned it would seem, to the world

Of work, while we’re stranded; those of us

Who seek purpose through the measure of meals

And forced acts. Former hobbies transformed

Into the unproven realms of vocation, as TV,

Exercise and/or reading replace sensation

And the travels towards the day’s fact.

I want to watch a Jack Lemmon film,

But what do I do when it’s over?

When and how will the dramas that I am

Trying to retrieve come to me? I seek

The comforts of old, but in seeking them,

They lose comfort. Did you know that Margaret

Rutherford’s Dad killed his father, and that her

Mother hung herself from a tree?

It was because of that legacy, I believe,

But that depth in the detail examples.

For there is another life behind vision

That connects to the secret self

None can see. It is the part left alone,

But which still hungers for others;

The aspect only truly released once

Surrounded, so that a definition of form

Is perceived. We look but still miss

The signal flare from a stranger,

Whether it is an old actor’s story,

Or something loved; some prized face.

Or something lost long ago that an active

Life might bring to us, if only we could

Retrieve the spun status that has left people

Who are in, out of place. Feeling that rip,

I prowl my own zoo, scourged by melancholic

Pride: a trapped Lion. Or, perhaps, I am waiting

In the wings, watching actors

While forced to understudy my own life

And actions and remake up my own face.

At least I know all the lines. Or I did.

And naturally, all the moves were once

Second nature. And yet, as that nature

Confronts us and the germ defines,

I feel stopped. And so, I write, read and will

And re-order myself into action, hoping

Against hope that such human being

Proves artful enough to move plot.

I stand and watch as the world starts to turn

In some strange impression of progress.

My entire house is a window, letting in dark

And light, hourly. I do not know when I’ll live,

And surpass mere existence. As I rake

The bookshelves for an enthusiast’s last

Distractions that may well tell him now

How to be. A friend asked yesterday

If I had any lasting sense of the weekend.

I did my best to assure him. But I feel

No change now, or season and no proper

Shape to the day. I am in mourning, it appears,

On this Monday morning, for the weeks

We’ve lost. The months, also, and for the year

To come, chasing shape. For it will be the kind

Of year that kills time, in each and all senses,

As our perception of it all alters,

And we immortalise each passed moment,

A place where every quickly whispered prayer

Has its say. I will have my bath and its earth

That I will swish around my face and my stomach.

I will be burying the old in bathwater, so that I may

‘Lazarus’ up from the foam, to find a fresh energy

With which I can form and do battle, with the gods

Of grief and the angels who will lift me up

And escort me from the frankly partial madness

Of home. I will be in mourning all year

For what has been lost, spent and squandered.

But I will save again. What choice is there?

For as I dream by daytime, the nightmare shifts

And hope roams. We just need to catch it, somehow.

As hope too, is contagion. It too, blurs the senses

And topples any unsteady King or Queen

From their throne. Apparently, I can go out now,

To look. If only such bartering brought me

Purpose. And vocation too, in the self employed

Furlough for which no last reprieve can atone.

So, on Monday the 18th, I stir and hope to hell,

The mix moves me. Heaven on earth has been

Sinking, but just like the great Seamus Heaney,

I source my soul in a poem. Death not of a Naturalist;

Its surreal now, as space both fills and empties.

No. ‘My squat pen’ crests on dream water.

And yet, I’m not diving.

I am digging deep.

Dog, to bone.

David Erdos May 18th 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.