TO THE ORTOLAN

TO THE ORTOLAN

One of the rarest foods served on plates

Is the Ortolan songbird. The snack

Of Billionaires only, their shame demands

That it’s eaten under either a hood,

Or face shroud. So that whatever God is

Will not see how one of its most exquisite

Creations is mastered; dipped in Armagnac

Brandy and roasted, its sweet French song

Extinguished as it enters and thrills

Each damned mouth. The One Percent

Eat it whole, priming privilege for sensation.

It is for their slick indulgence that this

One-ounce illegal (and thus exclusive) bite

Seasons need. You swallow this bird, crisped

And caught from feet to beak, crunching

On bones, fats and brandy, with the taste

Of figs and flesh fusing with the juices

And guts in your feed. Including of course,

Your own blood, as the Ortolan’s bones

And talons scrape at you, and yet, as you chew,

The flamed life force of what once sang

And flew falls consumed. Sadly, such acts

Are attacks that this slender horde unleash

On us. In every false word and gesture,

The delicacies of the depraved distort tune.

For now the future of song and music too,

Has been threatened. With the global

Songbirds soon silenced, a report

On the NME website today defines

The true enemy, as the Immigration Bill

That’s slid through will restrict the free flow

Of EU and Non-EU musicians, who from

2021 will need Visas, to play their music

Here and succeed. They will also need to show

Gain and worth of more than £1000 in their

Pocket; enough to ensure that their singing

Will incur no extra charge from our air.

And the price of these Visas will rise, as each

Breath is checked, each note measured,

Guaranteeing that the live sharing of music,

And the collaborations to come won’t

Be spared. The Ortolans are alive when

They are cast into the brandy.

They are cooked alive, their fear frying

In the juices of booze and their blood.

Just as music will be, as they start to

Segregate every artist. One step away

From the Gulag as the musician Gil De Ray

Describes: Death’s new flood. As soundwaves

Suffocate and are separated by oceans.

The richer Rockstars may fund them

But will and inclination are being forced

To decrease, as the scale of song shrinks

And a tempest occurs around touring. Having

Been robbed of the record as a means to survive,

Gigs release not only the energy of that air

But the actual purpose of music. It is man’s

Variant on ascension and the methods

And means we can fly. If you place a cage

Around breath you will only obscure visions’

Mirror. And what you will see in reflection

Will lose surface and sense as stains dry.

Music will remain in its cell, unable to even

Return to the pubs we can’t go to. In emptied

Rooms, chords are practised as the performing

Of them starts to fade. The Brexit burn

Will scorch through, and have every English

Artist soon branded. For Corona will have

Assisted those slick Euro sceptics who will

Have been able to slide this all into play.

We have been distracted of course and have not

Heard the guitars fall from tuning. The Pianos,

Too, now sound sour as the pedalled sustain

Soon falls thin. Suddenly a key struck

In France, or, a string strummed in Spain

Can’t be balanced, as the price is paid

And demanded and those who aren’t famous

And advance the art fail to sing. The Ortolan bird,

Found in France is a deeply endangered species.

Its spark is numbed for Musk’s dinner, or if not

Musk himself, his cohorts, who will soon decide

What we eat as they carve up elephants

As food sinners, and claw the sky free of

Songbirds and sauté the dreams we’d support.

You can put a price on the art,

But this is a tax on the artist. Not on what

Whey do, on what’s special about what they

Wish to bring to the world. Which is both

A means to become and a melody made

By the ancients, who afforded a true sound

To feeling and to the thousands now

Who’ll be spurned. It will be one more song

That’s been stopped, and one more act

Towards silence. For at music’s end, we’ll hear

Cracking and feel the crumbling of flesh

As hearts fall. For skin will have lost

Its soft muse, as we become the Ortolan,

Consumed by the removed money makers,

Protecting themselves as we suffer, wings clipped,

Deafened, dying and dreaming once more

About flying and of some lost bird’s

Distant call. I hear a bird singing now,

And see a fat and phantom hand come

To grasp it. I play a chord. No-one listens.

The bird has flown.

The sky’s stalled.

David Erdos May 20th 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.