DO LITTLE
DO LITTLE
Every day,
as I wrote outside my front door,
A strange flying
orange ant came to join me.
Insisting on
attaching itself to each object,
It would not
despite my attempts, be removed.
Today, it
returned, like a random thought
To remind me
that there is a second life
Between
shadows and a hidden claim
That can’t
lose. A flick of my pen saw the thing
Topple into
my coffee. Having stalked the mug,
It swam
slowly, and believing it dead, I felt cursed.
I prised the
ant out with a pen and saw at once
The first
flutter. Depositing it on the table,
I hoped the
emergent sun would reverse
All I had
wrought, so I sought to soak the spill
With patched
tissue. This, it resisted, while
Willing its
wings back to life. I did all I dared,
Carved as I
was by my conscience. While it
Cured its
drowning by drying fresh strength
From winged
strife. Brothering bees sang
For it, as
they heralded fast now between us.
Had I failed
a friend? None would tell me,
As man
always mires the grand and great
Scheme of
things. The insect soon flew.
Would that
we could all transform just as
Quickly. For
another dark substance soils us.
The liquid
boils. We fall in. Then, another even
Smaller soul
stalked the page, following my pen
As it
travelled. Showing that while we are nowhere,
There is an
elsewhere in which other lives seek
Ascendance
and where a strange and second
Song starts
to sing. Do little and see an entire
Existence
upended. It is only perhaps from these
Angles that
the true communication between
Each other
creature is heard. They are telling us
That we are
the race that’s been run. And that it
Was not won
by its sprinters. For it is those that fly
Who still
master. They rewrite life. We disturb it
And in
failing their tests, fall absurd. I don’t even
Know this
ant’s noun, only that it drowned and
Revived in
one minute. With sun on its skin came
Survival.
But when sun touches ours, we just burn.
Perhaps the
angels are ants, and not as depicted,
Not our
romanticised image. The golden Bee-elzeebub
Rises,
passing the pollen while we piss the poison.
Below, the
worm works the burrow,
And as the
insects collude, the world turns.
David Erdos June 21st
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.
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David Erdos
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© David Erdos has asserted his moral rights as author of his work and has full copyright.
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