ON A FORM OF WARNING

ON A FORM OF WARNING

I’m not sure I want to go out, not that there’s anywhere

Now to go to, for having walked the scented streets,

Strange subsidence is possibly discerned through straight

Lines. Indeed, everywhere levels out, while slowly submerging,

Casualties without contact, or a sanctioned touch, disinclined.

I think of Billy Wilder’s great quote when I consider those

I was close to: ‘If you lived in a better neighbourhood,

I’d worship the ground you walk on,’ I’m laughing, even as

I stifle it within verse. Or Mark E. Smith’s great phrase

About tech: ‘Technology is fire in the hand of fools,’

Now, we’re burning as the world reveals further horrors,

Moving towards the new normal which instead of

Saving grace, becomes curse. It feels as if we were

Walking on ice that would see us cracked at all moments,

Or, air; unreal, dreamt, imagined, as if each paving stone

Became cloud. Or, perhaps, like that sense of disbelief

On a plane when it remains in sky finds street level,

For while, apparently there is freedom, I feel each flower

Flush with forced doubt. Suddenly the world is a trip,

Without a drop of LSD staining sugar. The tastes are

Troublesome also, as I expect milk to sour, or, orange

Juice to turn sharp. I can’t disassociate myself from

The thought of a suffering world set to worsen,

Even as writing this I play herald to the hopeful return

Of the heart. I am eager to love, touch and kiss.

Today, I’ve been writing of ghosts, love’s lost phantoms,

And the essence of those I’ve relinquished. I am honouring

Them as I pass from this private space to a supposedly

Public poem, watching a momentary world that’s without

Them but in which they would return, if I asked.

This poem is my book’s unlucky thirteenth, or perhaps

Lucky thirteenth, if I face it. For suddenly, superstition

In the Covidian Age holds no weight. The unexpected

Arrived. Apparently even Ghislaine Maxwell’s been arrested.

Will she in time meet hard water, the kind in which her

Desperate Dad sought escape? One wave replaces the next.

Will the British monarchy fall beside her, as a second

American wife seeks abdication and Prince Andrew, too,

Bares the brunt of these ensuing days where Civil unrest

And spurned statues and our fading fates are sliced swiftly

By the knives in our backs, sides and fronts. The values

Topple like bricks in an unsealed wall. The dust rises.

Meanwhile, I watch more Billy Wilder and think of all

Of those cast above. Where will we find the next turn?

It would seem that the world is all corners. Everything

Has been hidden, folded, withheld, even love.

But then love grows again. There, as is said in songs,

Rests its power. So, let us now rouse fresh fires

And may those who would damn us still lose their luck.

The weather has changed, hourly. I cast to the breeze,

Burden's ashes. As the flame cools and conjures,

Bright thoughts rise rewritten. That's when the tolling

Approaches and the silent signal starts.

The bell’s struck.

David Erdos June 2nd 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.