IN REPLY

IN REPLY

Walking in the street yesterday, a man and his wife

Near pushed themselves into a wall to avoid me,

Doubling back, I observed them do the same thing

To a boy on a bike passing by. It wasn’t the movement

So much, as the attitude that informed them. ’If you want

To avoid others,’ I countered while passing, ‘wear a mask!’

Only to hear his mocking and passive aggressive

‘Have a nice day!’ in reply. Such are the wars we now

Fight, and not just with the climate. For the true divisions

Have opened, as if you could incur some form of paper

Cut on your soul. People have proved themselves thin

Despite the pressing weight of precaution, where everyone

Outside of your – what used to be called circle, now bubble –

Are potential threats, not of Covid, but to what the seeming

Status Quo tries to hold. Which is exactly what, two weeks

On, as we ease ourselves backwards into freedom?

Filling the shops while maintaining predestined exit routes

Across floors, which are as meaningless as the laws,

That resemble the drafts of bad poems; blank verse free

From both rhyme, or reason, which as soon as its written

Gives life to nothing, not even a phantom, or at the very

Best, pregnant pause. Life has become premature,

As what was once cultivated has been given up for adoption

In some parallel universe, where perhaps another breed

Of people will have learned how to live and trust one

Another and where, God knows, they are guided towards

A well-formed cause, free from curse. However, here,

I smell Hex; the pill in the pint lager covers, or the tincture

Within whiskey, or, vodka version, or possible germ in the gin,

That none can detect but which is distilling inside a new

Flavour, and changing the texture: for as blood colours

Thought, rage begins. That couples’ continued flinch

On the street is just one example. Another is the wary

Eye we’re unpeeling as we Cyclops or walk side by side,

Or, sit on empty trains caged by masks while few outside

Care to wear them, and time itself becomes mongrel,

Mixed messages blurring each new day we’re birthing

While the old lay untended and still falling prey, fail

And die. What are we avoiding, and why? These are

The questions. Is it perhaps the true fate we fear coming,

As a Summer is sanctioned before the Winter cold seals

Once more? Or, some greater fear, that we may never

Again, be the drummer of the special rhythm we cherished

And which saw us marching out and past our locked doors?

I think of that couples flinch even now and in their step

I have measured the continued distance of people

And the oceans that swell between friends. Needing company,

I talked to one last night, and he mentioned a mental list

He was making of those he could no longer trust

And those he felt close to and for whom, both eyes open

That self-same love and sense of trust could defend.

Do the apples fall where they may? Or was Isaac Newton

Always the target? Has there always in fact been a market

In which our fast descent was declared? For just as Gravity

Pulls, our own gravitas falls relinquished, as we recover

From the striking of an invisible hand in the air. That very slap

Saw us slump, but now we scale the wall, bruised and bracing

For the next unseen challenge that we may not know

How to fight. We are already practising on ourselves,

As anxiety sets us racing towards a finish line on a minefield,

Or, on dark water, which may only absorb once prized light.

And yet, we still swim, despite fears of drowning. We leave

Our homes to recapture what we had before on the beach.

We honour the sun, without knowing what its eventual

Glare may deliver, and retrain our hands for a touching

Which may yet remain out of reach. We are feeling

The future like Braille, without ostensibly being blinded

Unsure of the ascents at our fingers, and unschooled

In each small peak and trough. The ground may give way,

But still we carry on walking. And yet I do fear our Guide

Dog. For unlike those Labradors, it’s our politicians,

And neighbours who should breathe and walk now

Beside us, healing a world torn asunder by the weapons

In wind, word and cough. The answer is there. We just

Need to ask a fresh question. Only when we do comes

Communion, and a clearing path through this darkness.

Then we may all walk on water; Gods grown in our

Image, seeding life in deep oceans as well as ensuring

That the touch we’ve all longed for is once more

Returned to the soft.

David Erdos July 16th 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.