PAUSE

PAUSE

In the plays of Harold Pinter, the pause is the true line

Of expression, and the silence the crisis as the characters

Lose where they are. A stance that I echo now, as I

Follow the words of this poem and we scan the horizon

For the next tear in the sky or crashed star. Suddenly,

We are pushed to return, as the homeshell splits all

Around us; confused, uninstructed, egg bound and

Bewildered by the gathering air at the door.

Like still blinded birds in the nest, our wings are yet

To find motion. There is no clear line of action,

So, we do all that we can to implore. We stamp

Our feet, we protest and cry to the air for spent spirits

Who will not write or allow us the detail we need

To go on. They will not colour the air, so we have

Only the paled pretence of behaviour, the memory

Of our movements and the dissonance perhaps

Of stopped song. The door is open it seems,

But in passing through we still linger.

Institutionalised in our houses, now our straightjackets

Will start binding the soul through a mask.

The pause between breaths will be felt

As it cinemas across senses, and the endless pause

Of the lockdown and of the world beyond sees

Words clasp. And chrysalis within our own throats.

As someone stopped the progression of all

That was vital, through virus that has come

To rewrite our next act. Harold Pinter predicted

All this. As Prime Poet of the Unsaid, he’s now

Prophet, as the principles he forged around

Menace and his powerplays between people

Have in all contexts become legitimised into fact.

Now, that strange silence looms as we suddenly

Become our own shadows. I have some work today.

It’s a motion, that I will start to perform in half light.

As I try to return to myself, after the disastrous

Direction they’ve given. Now we’re all actors.

In a bad play whose construction sees no-one

Of worth fit to write. And so I go on. I feel paused.

I do not move. Now it’s Beckett. ‘Pull on your trousers,’

As the characters say in Godot. Beckett told his

Characters what to do, down to timing their breath

And their footsteps. Pinter gave no information.

His text is the dice actors throw. These men were 

Two artistic parents to me from what seems

Like a perfect time, long subverted. As those

Presently devising us mar and mumble,

Providing misinformation while withholding

All of the actual things we should know.

So, we put on our costumes once more

And perform ourselves, numbed and nervous.

Through our screens they observe us, puppets

Of the puppeteered inside theatres that they

Will seek to ensure remain closed. For,

When you are paused the air closes in

All around you. Each step is strapped.

Each breath glass like. What will it be like,

This sad show? Still no-one knows.

Thus, we go.  And this wretched pause

Becomes clause as we resign social contracts. 

And our former applause remains folded.

It’s in their pockets now.

Trouble grows.

David Erdos , June 8th 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.