The Unwanted

THE UNWANTED

Perhaps more than love, not being wanted’s the challenge,

As the removal of company and of purpose would certainly

Still anyone. For when one is inessential to others, the sting,

Or possible weight of attachment becomes both dream

And burden, as well as the stalling of any conceivable way

Or means to become. For to be just for you and for you alone

Feels like labour. In these unclear days, a return to the mist

Allows options in which souls can easily slip between lines.

Instead, a softer withdrawal seems safe, as if you could

Exchange your home for an island and drift off, discreetly

Into a horizon stained sacrifice. Even our former ambitions

Seem tame, as we do not know which signposts await us.

There is a belief this leased summer will soon see us returned

To the cage. This would mean a patterns’ been set for both

Obedience and disruption, rendering the attachments

Referenced in this poem as near historical features

In an archived book, or, turned page. So, we must find comfort,

It seems, with what we might call a pale shadow; something

Without substance, albeit with a touch of the ghost

Which haunts the known day with a requiem for that other,

In which life was easier and of which in times to come,

I may boast. Older, still alone I would with a glisten in the eye

Cry dream water, describing to a younger friend those bright

Moments in which the potential to touch formed new worlds,

That could still arrive out of this strange chrysalis we’re

All part of, hoping that through transmutation still vibrant

Wings may unfurl. Today, I’m unsure. I may write again

Of a boredom. But my uncertainty is not tainted, and I do

Not see my hand pause. I just do not know which direction

It is I am facing. Perhaps some of you feel that also.

Perhaps wanting that makes us siblings, and perhaps

This primed absence writes a new contract for which

A new familial form provides clause. And cause, too,

Of course, as we all move towards it. I am a man unconnected,

Shaking off the sad shackles of this sorry sentence,

As a prisoner full of freedom to break and retain

Fate’s sealed door. No one may want me, or my words.

But then we carry on, don’t we? Working our way

Through desire and then, somehow from it, revering

The stream from the floor to reach, or to try to reach

Some of the sky through the window. Then, I would be

Light itself seeking sunlight as clouds cool above me

And the coming sun soon restores. Perhaps through that,

Purpose comes, and strength is resummoned, permitting

That coming night to sustain me just as the dark grants

Slow witness. In such need and such wanting

I will try to understand and to savour

Just what it is stars are for.

David Erdos July 9th 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.