SYMPTOMANIC

SYMPTOMANIC

How do you write about it? You can’t.

You just do your best to walk with it.

But it is like a wall that’s constructed

And which, with no warning at all

Just descends. Yesterday, I wrote, laughed,

Connected, discussed, resolved issues,

But today each dealt card felt wasted

And I was exiled in mind from all friends.

The Economy is depressed as we lope towards

A recession. With a hand at its throat,

There’s a squeezing, impossible to quite quantify.

As we spend, and don’t spend and hobbit away

In our hovels, all of our former habits,

And the pleasures we sought are decried.

By 6pm I would eat but the food I have bores me.

As frozen as my fridge, I am storing the will

To go on, and live more. I am no longer sure

What to be. Does anyone feel the same?

Some may think so. But still I wonder if something

Intrinsic has been altered and changed at each door.

I should keep this piece short, but black clouds

Breed sharp rain and in falling fast that rain spears me.

Despite the sun, the wind’s warning is talking to me

Of fresh wounds. These I must be brave enough

To now bare, or strong enough to walk over.

Or through, for depression as with a weathered one

Returns soon. When your home is a cell, then

It’s the heart and mind that are captive.

The body merely amplifies the dark music

That fritters and swells from the bone.

Which can argue with walls when there is

Nowhere else it can turn to, not without truly

Knowing the answers they place beneath stones.

Which is where the slugs are and stains,

Not to mention the secrets, hidden from view,

Close to shadow, assaults lodged beneath us,

For which no-one is prepared to either admit

Or atone. Perhaps those soiled stains

That accrue beneath garden bags are depressions;

A patio’s inner turmoil slyly emphasised by the slug.

So, mental health warps the wall along with those

Who live pressed against it, home and resident fusing

In the bad trip that claims them as they overdose

On fate’s drug. I’m talking about stains on stone,

For those of you without gardens. Sudden stains

On walls, carpet, curtains, or at the corner of your eyes

Mouth, or dreams. Symptomatic, perhaps of a state

In which every mask is a mirror, for both an uncertain

Future as well as the features already set for you

By dark schemes. And yet there is a way through,

As people become others’ mirrors: with everyone

The same, the depression, moving in from the East

Glazes all. The Americans blame the Chinese

For this profound change in people and yet

Each rising sun paints all nations in the colours

And warmth that enthrals. All problems,

It seems can be caused and rooted in people.

But if this is some strange act of nature

Then there is a way now to prepare.

For an awareness will come of the damage caused

Across ages, and the planet we’ve ravaged

Will be subject in time to our care.

That’s where our purpose will lay,

And with that aim, reconnection.

We will find fresh survival as each of us learn

To prepare. For depression is charge, a necessary act

To grow stronger. The mind and soul’s hibernation,

Either mentally, or in bed. A period of transition,

Perhaps, in which we locate fresh resources

And retitle them, proudly as we forego what it was

To be led. We can be startled by strength, as it pushes

Up through the pavement, demanding feet to walk

On it and to once more reclaim each lost road.

We will rescind. We will rise. We may still fall back.

We’ll walk faster, away from the notions of what

They want us to be and what’s owed. For freedom

Starts in the mind and the mind is where it ends also.

The freedom to believe we’ll be better across either

Churchill’s fields of conflict or any of our smeared

Battlegrounds. Its across that blood, you’ll find seeds,

As creation roars through destruction.

For what you have lost feeds and forms you

And helps to provide the profound.

We recede. We succeed.

And in this way birth the flower.

In the kisses to come we’ll shake symptoms

And the madness we’ve made

For love’s sound.

David Erdos May 15th 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.