DREAM LOVER by David Erdos

 

DREAM  LOVER

I survive one day at a time without thinking of you.

Last night, after writing, Herzog’s Aguirre, the Wrath

Of God saw me saved. It was as if this astounding film

Had watched me, as the Conquistadors descend down

The mountain, there to lose themselves in the jungle

Beside cloud and chaos and the river that wept

Through death’s gaze. We are floating on our own

Shattered rafts, as I write, in different parts of the country.

But our islands may as well be part of far planets,

Separated, like Kinski from much of his own sanity.

And so I watch you, too, like a film in the moments

Before sleep, or, on waking, as if you were a folded

Reflection, or, a crime long committed and for which

There is no clemency. What happens to us both,

If despite the light of each day, we are darkness?

Will we really let the years pass between us without

A moment of touch, or last kiss? It seemed so inconceivable

Once that there would be a time shaped without you.

Now, on this unattended stage: bare narration

And the knowledge that you in turn, won’t hear this.

Or, read it, or know that I am  still speaking to you,

And in a part song, still calling as it was because of you

I was filled, as the priest is with faith in the film,

That Aguirre erodes with his madness. And so we drift

Down closed rivers, as the former current greets whirlpool

And the dream of an El Dorado of love has been killed.

I tend to think of love now as a stream, whose bank  I mar

Just by watching. There was a woman once and her body

Which has become less than film; now, not even an image

To hold, or, an object or form I can picture; just the memory

Or reflection of a ruined room none can build. What will I do

Then, today as I sit in my room thinking of you? And of how

You’re not thinking of me in mine, or, in ours, as the country

Divides and the virus in love marks its victims? Sometimes, 

To recover, the past’s worn wreath wrecks flowers.

But when at last, there’s no more, I will still turn my face

And remember, not only Herzog’s dream like film

But the kingdom that you and I could have walked.

It exists for us all, despite the deceit and disguise

In all jungles, and even if the stars cannot save us

As death’s last date forbids talk, I will be watching

The past, just as I have done with this poem.

Under  Covid’s claim, this I promise.

For along with my parents, your name rivers

Through me. You, my dream lover will always

Have been my life’s work.

David  Erdos September 26th 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.