TO A WINDOWED WORLD

TO A WINDOWED WORLD

There  is a beautiful oriental flower that grows

Somewhat randomly in my garden. Each year,

A new position is featured, the poppy  turning up

Like a penny with its function and aim as surprise.

An elegant orange signpost, of sorts, that points

Me towards the exotic, and away from this

Sun bleached bush in the suburbs, as I chase

The east in my thinking which now roses

And thorns as fears rise. For in this most

Nostradamic of years, the drama is revealed:

There’s no flower. It has not bloomed yet,

Or risen as if it were shadowing its founding

State, in retreat. As a Chinese bat bears the brunt

Of what the British rats suffer, and the sinking

Ship  near submerges beneath the carpet and floors

At our feet.  This poppy was like blazing sun

On a stem, and had such promise and hope

Held within it. I am writing this now in that

Absence and am concerned about the particular

Weight of these words. For will they in their

Rhyme and their steady sway catch the feeling,

Or a falling star that taints no-one, as no true

Decay’s ever heard. It is simply seen over time,

Or perhaps sensed in secret:  a covert operation

For which reduction remains the one aim,

As they continue to censor conspiracy’s

Claims,  and American Superpower arm wrestles,

The table beneath begins trembling with the riot

And rage that sparks blame. Meanwhile, Trump

Denies everything, creating a dangerous precedent

Through wrongdoing; this President with fouled

Purpose and perspective too, flips Fake News,

Which is Orwell’s Newspeak writ large.

As one couldn’t refer to a Doublethink image,

For there is no thought at all behind actions

That seek to disguise exposed truth.

What is it about nations that strive

For a supremacy over others? With so much

Of the planet as ocean, this form of size envy

On land seems puerile. And penile, too,

As we point our fingers and toys at each

Other, with the nuclear burn and burst

Of my flower acting as a totem for both

The growth and gain they defile.

The dearth of this flower perturbs,

As every poppy remembers. They speak

Of a war across cultures as a climate

Of fear now descends. The day is too hot

For the flower to thrive. It’s that simple.

Its delicate, tissue petals are the touches

I felt once in Peace. Perhaps the time now

For calm has been surrendered forever,

And yet we can still find a furlough

In which a garden of sorts can complete.

Not in the expanses to share, but in a range

Of worlds at our window. Such a communal

Gaze could continue as we offer and show

Our small shoots, from either our windows

And doors, to make forests of the mind,

Future Edens, which from house to house

The wind carries, as those trapped inside

Prize a plant pot to reveal their Edenic

Tree’s early roots.  There was a beautiful

Oriental flower that grew every year

In my garden. My dream of it, waters in me

And on an entirely new planet where those

Who would harm us could not even

Begin to break through.     

David Erdos May 7th 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.