METROPOLITALAND

METROPOLITALAND

Sir John Betjeman wrote of this train trundling

Its way out of Uxbridge. Today, carriaged silence

And my Jewish soul does remind of former train

Journeys in which fear and something as corrosive

As fear; trepidation echoed under motion, pushing

Passengers ever closer to the cold embrace

Of stopped time. Aldgate isn't Auschwitz of course.

Nor Baker Street, Belsen. Wembley Park is not

Dachau even if its towers do stand rebuilt.

Yet behind our stares we are stilled, as masks

Contain the closed person, and the return to work

Feels like murder as time and truth seem to tilt. 

Why are we wearing these masks when they seek

To cut the two metres? Outside the train all is flurry,

While this travel towards becomes grave.

The train becomes a moving coffin, of sorts,

With the light of life caught through windows;

With Preston Park a drab shadow, giving way

To the Finchley Road photograph no-one saves. 

Held in here we're one race while outside Black

Lives batter at the racist rule that has seen them

Crushed and then filled with new air. This we are

Trying to breathe as the imposed shrouds cover

Faces, and I can feel the rash forming around

My mouth and nose as rage flares. We are still

Being kept under a chaos rule of fused colour,

In which blood and black blur the senses

And the world we once knew turns to smoke.

I glimpse the gas towers ahead, but now

The mist masks the bodies. As this protective

Sock reeks of Jackboots storming the street,

War's no joke. Even Churchill has returned under

Our Prone Minister's botched impression, while

The cartoon stare of his statue is captioned inside

Its own box. The Metropolitan line writes me now,

Close to such confrontation. As the riots boil

In stark sunlight, just how will today end in shock?

Another black man dies as I sit in silence. And then

Another, another as the sad, stunned show seeks

Repeat. Twitter's song becomes sea as everyone

Casts their soiled teardrop, including me with this

Poem, but how can we sail through and how

Will we now crest defeat? Kick the state

For too long, and that state begins stamping. 

As we, headless chickens, suffer by face and throat,

They'll slit us. Those who died in the camps, had no

Reprieve at all. They fell, silenced. While we rise

We are shouting because we do not know who

To trust. Soon, should THEY win, we won't know

How to trust, either. Hope forms despite that.

But then its spite that sparks all. For this is

A battle begun, as everywhere becomes suburb.

Separate streets made of people who dare

To defend their heart's call. The train takes me

On between zones. It is 10am and its empty.

Through the mask on my face a hand stifles.

And I think of all of those who would speak. 

The ghost of Churchill's boom can't be zoomed

In his protective shroud, despite racists. 

BAME sets blame's agenda as contagion falls,

Horror rises to once more attain its own peak.

Both black and white fuse but it’s really the black

That needs hearing. The white stirs in slowly, 

In an attempt not to grey, as that colour reminds

Of a former uniform found within a parallel landscape.

The electric train trundles. With my entire face

Covered I hear the bright fire and speak through

My eyes as I pray. What are we moving towards?

This is my ninety ninth Lockdown poem. When

The daily ones end tomorrow, how will the next

Book be formed? What sort of words will I write,

Hidden, like Winston Smith in my corner?

For as colours run pens start crying. Poor old 

Betjeman will be banished. The train arrives.

The gaps widen. Mind how you go. What has

Opened and what has been closed?

Watch all doors.

David Erdos June 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.