CAVE PANTING by David Erdos

 

CAVE PANTING

Writing is hiding. I’ll hide in rhyme and with reason,

Or, without reason, or acceptable rationale, because

I have no choice, or too much, which is as fearsome

A bind as restriction, and where the illusion

Of movement is enough to keep my frozen heart

Locked in thrall. Close to fat as I type, life itself

Has grown thinner. Soon I will have to think about

Shopping as I do so now with these words,

Measuring them on the page and on the plates

That await me, as while help was first given,

Soon tax will reduce me with no wages in sight

To a blur. I am writing my fourth book this year

While most readers I have remain secret.

To those who hear me online, in my shadows

I am seeking the shapes that link all, and feeling

My way across the torn terrain Covid’s folding,

Or, rather, the aspects after Covid, such as the fascists

Force and storm call. After the Summer’s hard heat

The English days appear colder. We have in our bunkers

More than a nuclear light now to fear, for like it or not

The lies rage and they have us all where they want us,

As Manchester rebels mankind wavers. As Liverpool

Fills Johnson Jeers. The poor will be blamed once again

For all this, and pay accusation’s price through the blaming,

We will be reduced by the rhyming of what we will have

Done with our luck. We will not be sustainable then

And therefore primed for recycling, for in a matter

Of months that name Covid has become as convincing

As Christ, as words fuck both those they condemn

And give up for sacrifice freely. Soon, when they talk

Of beginning it will be with a Biblical tint, I predict.

And so I write my own books in a phantom library

Of my making, scrawling on walls my breath visions

And staining the air with this print. Which only a handful

May read, now, or at some barren time in the future,

When even this small house falls empty and there is no-one

To care who I was. It will be a place of small stone

And brick. A ‘Stonehinge’ in the suburbs; a forgotten

Cave in which the panting of needing to be either

Recognised, or feel love, falls away like the touch

I can remember still from my Mother. Or from those

Other touches that I have not shared now since March. 

I know this because tonight on TV I saw an incredibly

Beautiful actress, and because if I can no longer touch

My friends, I clearly won’t know her, being either too old,

Or, apart. Or, because we never get to meet the prized

Ones that we truly want to; as in a life of replacements

An unbalanced but equivalent faith tests the heart.

When I am finally free from hiding, my cave, as dry

As dust will show paper on which my thoughts and reading

Lay written on the records and books I have loved,

As well as the memory of my friends and of my Mother

And Father, for whom I still cry in secret, and for

The love that I had whose skin gloves - the tender touch

Within sleep, as I dream her face every evening

Which remains the face I still search for and one

That the heart attempts to reblood. I will need a fresh

Transfusion of her and my parents too, and all feeling

For these inbetween days to complete me. And for this

Drowning in these days of drought to find flood.

Let us rise and return to the shape long forsaken.

From my cave, hear me calling.

I can only hope someone does so.

I am doing my bloody best to be good.

David Erdos, October 25th 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.