THE CAPTIVE, CALMED

THE CAPTIVE, CALMED

Here in the breeze and the blush

Of this sun strummed garden, I sit, part resplendent

In nature, and to some extent, great neglect.

The people who know of me will hold one face clear

Before them, while choosing to be unaware

Of the other for which only a handful of names

Are suspects. And yet, we are all crimes in one sense,

Remaining ignorant of each other. By using these

Separations as custom, it would appear that we’re hiding,

While shattered and stunned behind glass,

Content not to know, or to even see the full picture

That in particular I’ve been painting, along with

This breath bred for sharing and the kisses I’ve kept

Behind masks. But to those I love and have loved,

I invoke these special spirits in summer.

I share my work and my worries as you flicker

And flash between leaves. You are in my thoughts

Constantly as the worlds we knew arc past orbits,

And this new Space Station, complete with the shadows

Of home now competes

with any other glimpsed world

As I black hole away from perception, passing through

My own supernova, as the stars I once traced duly fold.

I feel as if I were travelling far while never leaving this table.

If this is a week of depression with another to come

I’ll take hold of the small audience of the self as I do my

Level best to distract him, attempting to warm myself

From the fires within which we’ll all lose control.

At Fifty I creak and rise from my seat and picture myself

Ten years later. Then ten years on. Who will know me,

And will they have read what I wrote? Perhaps I type it here

To disown the swell of fate sent to claim me

And to then celebrate it, before these words and burns

Turn to smoke. Few listen, I know. But when they do,

There is sweetness and in such aroma, and the slow

And tapering trail, lights bestowed. Borrowed no doubt

From that sun that portraits each of us in this shimmer

Summoning shapes we’ll ascend to and volumes

Of voice far, suns know. If you were to ask me right now,

I would say that nothing I write is catharsis. Such expressions

Of loss, love and anger have no resolutions as such.

Each returns. I simply write to reach out, to touch

With a line, thought or gesture. I write just to honour

The life that I now just research. As I sit and consider

And try to work out a way to be better, in a closed world

Windows open and in seeing the sky eyes still learn.

It is a strange thought indeed when home becomes

Its own prison and when the known streets beyond it,

And the appeal they once had has declined.

This is not because of a strain, infamous germ,

Or contagion, but simply because of a feeling

For which at the present time, there’s no rhyme.

Life has lost former scope so scampers now,

For potential. Across trees, parks and gardens,

City and field, clouds are scraped. The precious

Bird of faith swoops, while I sit and remain,

Death’s calm captive, forming each day

My new sentence. But as my lost loves soar,

I escape.

David Erdos August 5th 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.