HNY by David Erdos - Poem 26 from THE PEOPLES PRISON
Poem 26 from THE PEOPLES PRISON
HNY
This has to be
written of course as by the end of today
The future we
fear is delivered as yet more tiers see us
Topple just as
they start to rise. There is the fear of
Continuance
set, alongside that bred by distance,
As
estrangement becomes public habit, and the private
Kind, too;
trapped inside. The world and my breath
Now feel
clenched, along with my fists as they’re typing;
Tapping out
distress signals: I just want to force them
Both through
the screen and touch someone’s face,
Or perhaps
another’s bright body and in that shining
Moment
encounter the physical proof of a dream.
It could still
be possible friends as talk rears
Of returning.
Whether you are vexed or not
By a Vaccine,
this long vacuum of a year has made
Dust of not
only our lives but of our expectations.
No doubt many
will roar and rouse around midnight
Placing both
their faith and their trust into God,
Or pure
chance, the law of averages or odds offered.
They hope for
return. They bet on it. This will be
Their waiting
game. But waiting for what? You know,
The fan caught
shit splinters, and when the air turned
It smelled
violent, as if it were insulting us. We’re defamed.
And have in
fact, been warned every day by the presence
Of the
incompetents sent to guide us. Decades past,
We used to
laugh at a Hancock for his pretension and poise
Badly masked.
Now we have one who failed to communicate
Any message
and the jokes that he’s telling would send
That lost Tony
further still through the dark. But while
That Matt has
no gloss, the predicting glass shows us little.
We are on the
kind of brink that makes drinkers turn finally
Into fish,
where eventually, they’re subsumed into an ever
Deepening
ocean, never to float again to the surface,
Dry land lost
to the dark, unreflected and as distant
To them as the
wish that every child makes, echoed
By all on this
Thursday. As the inept arrange the near
Future which
suddenly seems imminent, we do not
Know if the
world will learn to restart ravaged engines,
Or whether the
slide from increasingly shaky ground
To the
cliff-face will make the fall permanent.
Man has long
dreamt of flight. If I make myself light
Winds may take
me. How Near You is the question,
And Heal Next
Year is the phrase by which we’ll abide
As we offer
our arms to the needle. Instead of avians
We’ll be
addicts; as hope transfuses with the last
Of the blood
of old in the vein. Happy New Year.
Party well.
And let’s hope that word holds no province.
For history
has seen other parties, of a different sort
Take control
of a society torn, and all too quickly
Divided and
where other people were robbed of all
Of those they
would hold. Today, like these months
Will have no
sense of occasion. But will we play
The game made
my midnight? And who will win
And lose? The
dice roll. HNY. Honey flows
In some
further Eden. As does the milk of human
Kindness and
money. And as do the tender tears
Of the soul.
How many such poems now will be
Scored as I
raise my words to you. My glass is often
Half empty. Let’s
hope that sip by sip vintage grows.
David Erdos, December 31st 2020
 |
David Erdos |
Comments
Post a Comment