IN WHOSE NAME? By David Erdos

 

IN WHOSE NAME?

Any day now, all will change: it will either be hope

Or hellfire; trumped, or unbidden (or, Bidened, perhaps

We’ll hear flame

                                  Burning somewhere, and yet

Without the former heat we relied on, as people

My age use nostalgia as a refuge from the current

Time’s stark mind game. As I write, we retreat

Until bunkers may combine with Christ’s manger,

Perhaps, while possibly isolated at Christmas,

We will look to 2021’s promised vaccine

As the Wise boy band once did to a star,

 

Singing our own strained Noels, with nowhere

To go, we’ll make wishes, about either success,

Or, seclusion, or the happiness we had which feels far

From where and what we have now, the beginnings

Of a formerly patronised fiction, one made to assure us

That the light sent to find us will forever direct us away

From such dark. And yet I cannot imagine it now,

As the roads I walked this week seemed truncated.

Going to the West End I wandered through a parade

Of ghosts and shops scarred

                                                By the threat of closure

And worse, by the utter absence of interest. London

Offered only a pale imitation of a capital for which

Survival now entails a large question mark. A cure could

Well come. But what will be left to heal over? Will each

Threatened store grow like grasses after the winter’s hold?

Will streets burn? For if Trump does return, there will be

A loss of sense and all reason and an encouragement

To the forces that are placing a stain on each mind.

The US prefers Dynasties, from the sharp thorned Bush

To cleared Clintons. So, will the preying Compos Mantis

Ivanka, (and Jared) sit out four years and mark time?

Before the real hammer falls and a brief delay sees snails

Blinded, finally crushed, while believing that we are over

The worst and that mountains crusted with Christmas snow

Now await us and remain the final barriers we must climb?

I think it will be tougher than that. And the challenge,

Of course, will run deeper. Right now, we are fossils

In the making, frozen to some extent in our houses,

But presented to the winter just like those lost creatures

Littered across submerged mountainsides.

How then, do we return and resist the secret bills

And signs passed at midnight? While we were dreaming,

Nightmares have been vampiracally transfused into day. 

If we are to break through the shell and once more become

Mammal, let us hope that our blood breeds no bargain

And that we all share a future in which we all have a say.

Naieve, I know. But if not, we’re trumped. Pun intended.

In whose name rests the future? Covid’s or yours? God’s,

Or Joe’s? Each of us make our pretense and our defence,

Too,  if we’re lucky. Meanwhile the sky appears closer,

And instead of a kiss, cold winds blow.   

David Erdos October 28th 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.