THE ANGELS’ ANSWER by David Erdos - Poem 13 From THE PEOPLES PRISON
Poem 13 From THE PEOPLES PRISON
THE ANGEL’S ANSWER
To get away
from oneself would seem to be
If not the
goal then the answer. As the house
Itself becomes
prison just where is it I should go?
Out into the
uneven air, where clouds are a crease
Sourced from
rupture, and set within skies
Drawn like
blankets around those keen to resist
Sleep’s stale
show. Night comes around like a curve
That the
coming day sees me slip in. That poetic
Death in
closed hours which everyone writes
Now bares
arms, before duly seeing them fold,
As muscles
first stoop then surrender,
And the lack
of event sends you slowly away
From the sense
saved through calm. Yet, this week:
Arguments,
carefully wrapped within silence.
I feel the
effects of the sentence now a full year
Served through
strained words of those who fall
Foul of proper
attention and meaning; as if
The language
we’re licking is both devoid of taste
And absurd. I
had a bloom of belief, but then
Weeds warped
the flower. Now, I seem to struggle
On through a
garden, punctuated by birds
But unkempt. I
lose my place, hourly, the fight
To weave my
way through the branches, tonguing
Thorns to
taste something other than spiralled
And sparked self-defence.
I seem to have lost
My way in the
world. So should start my own.
Theirs keeps
turning. In moving through mud,
One is mired
and yet must still relish the means
To find mirth.
I suppose we detach from those
Who do not
understand us. Of course, everyone
Has their own
nation, their own fought for place,
Their prized
worth. And so, in this time of change,
Where a new
deep groove finds its needle,
The song I’ll
be singing will be part of a quite
Different key.
And they will leave me to it, I’m sure,
As I whistle
my way towards madness, just like
Old John
Clare, or, poor Artaud, toothless
In the rain as
friends flee. I have breathing
That path
across words as sickness begats
Strained
survival. So long single now, or forever,
The smudge of self-pity
is removed not by washing
But by moving
behind normalcy. I may indeed
Disappear as
the people’s prison continues.
Afterall,
walls hold no warning under a corrupted
Air’s tenancy.
And people go mad every day.
Perhaps a
second clarity claims them. Let’s hope
It’s something
the clouds know: those creases
Are factors in
rain’s fluency. But it has been
A challenging
week in which I relinquished
My grip on
some people. Still, there are many
I cling to as
the alleged landing craft hovers high.
And of course
the page still sustains even if it
Becomes a
cloud mirror. Sometimes, your own
Treachery
tears at the writing, but stuck out here
In the margins
you can see skin as paper
And understand
how touch dries. I have, or so
You might say,
Living Block, which has nothing
To do with the
writing. In pouring my entire self
Into language
I recognise now that true silence
Is where the
future rests. Will it slide?
Only the
strange cosmos knows,
Having no
responsibility to the earthly.
I squint,
seeking Angels. But they never come.
God knows why.
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David Erdos |
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