HOLY IN HOMERTON

HOLY IN HOMERTON

Anthony

tends to the land.

In his large hands the soil is stirred

Through waves of land water, as he time travels

Back on the walkway outside his Hackney Wick flat.

The Lockdown has allowed a form of retreat

He embraces, as he fuses old skills with new

Movements, latterly flax breaking as he seduces

The raw and unruly straw used for hats.

Which he wishes to weave now into clothes,

As he learns the lessons of linen, this along

With the leather pouches he's making, brings

Village life into focus as one man's city efforts

Revivify ancient times. As parts of America seem

To seek a fresh feudal system, here, as he flexes

And flaxes Paradise is begat in E9.

Anthony studied the process online and made

The machine itself before starting, a wooden

Press that delivers the massage God needs

To ease twine. It is a moving sight watching him

As he sends me an eye clip on Whatsapp, to see

One modern man's labour, working away from

The shadows cast by this fast-disguised Tory mine.

Anthony's rage at the news as a man of colour,

Sends him spinning back through the decades

And the centuries too when life's code meant

So much more than today, as Anthony was spun

Himself from traditions: his Nigerian Father

Speaks to him, even in death, of what's owed.

A man tends to his land and to the family on it;

Such as Anthony's Irish Mother, his sisters,

And his daughters too, seas apart. His adult

Girl, and her child, Anthony's small granddaughter,

And then his younger girl, taken from him,

But who he now parents daily, showing with love

And pride a Dad's art. Anthony is in his fifties now,

And has lived through the race that we are

Currently running. The only black child in his

First school he knows what it is to defend

Who you are from the crush of the prejudicial

Stare primed for felling, but like the trees

He plants, this black Jesus, is able to resist

Such pale ends. As he practises craft, the river

Of filth we're bestriding flows fast around him

As he preaches in friends’ videos

About the progress of his plants and of how

Far we have fallen. As man sinks asunder,

Here under the soil, fruit maestros; Anthony

Points out grapes that won't sing until the hopeful

Excision of Boris, as he forwards missives

On the virus that screams on the vine.

He focuses on flax seeded here for another

Gardener to watch over, while his world

Of wood, straw and leather in his Homerton

Home shows love's climb. Anthony could

Doubtless build you a house. He once had

To sew up his thigh in the outback, and all

Of this as an actor who is perpetually

On the rise. He is one of the finest I know,

And everyone loves him. Walk down these roads

You might hear him, hand pressing gospels

And teaching us all, through oppression

How love can be mastered and how, despite

Demons, we can ascend while on land and truly

Become inspiration; carpenters whose heart's

Structure could make each one of us

Our own Christ.

David Erdos June 11th 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

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