THE CHRISTMAS AUTHOR by David Erdos - Poem 21 from THE PEOPLES PRISON

 Poem 21 from THE PEOPLES PRISON

THE CHRISTMAS AUTHOR

 

 

Some tell me they have seen sadness play

On my face across this screen persona.

And it is true: there’s a chorus and a small

Theatre of pain to my stare. Confusion.

Distress and no doubt, disillusion. But not,

I hope, stark delusion as I pose the question,

While gazing out from this window,

As to whether or not hope is there.

 

John Le Carre died just last week taking the best

Of Espionage with him. Now, the collusion

Of this serpented year truly snakes, seeking

Undergrowth beneath snow that is either real,

Or imagined, as even bright sunlight freezes

And BJ blows us all back into a chasm

With or without an earthquake. So, this Christmas,

No gifts. Come back, walnut and tangerine,

 

You’re forgiven. Meanwhile, Bob Cratchitt

Scratches and Tiny Tim’s braces break.

Only Ebeneezer is left, guided by ghosts

To forgiveness, only to find his burst bubble

Will serve to infect and deliver, not the love

He’s forgotten, but rather the rattle and ruin

Of his partner Jacob Marley’s chain shake.

It is as if it were planned by some other author;

 

Spying on us and describing morality’s next

Haunted tale. This will take away all our toys,

As we learn to play new games with both memory

And each other, across great dreams of distance

And the approximate world that can’t fail.

Or so we believe, or they would have us believe

While we’re straining to see through the rain

From high heaven, and thus God’s scented tears

 

Or that made from such disruption of sky

As a Chemical wind can now offer. For the current

Pollution in fate has no odour, no symptom it seems,

And no shade. You can carry Covid they say while

Not suffering from it. As the commercial cure

Carves us the virus in turn just mutates. 

But those words plague me still, making my own

Thoughts bubonic. It isn’t there, but you have it.

 

It’s like some sort of trick played by fate.

Now those who question vaccines have already

Been maligned to the public. These undesirables

Have been labelled, as the unstable, no doubt,

Sense attacks. To put them in Camps might be

Next, or, else sent to Unpriti Patel’s’ magic island

Where the dark fantasy we’re all fearing is now

Uneasily weighing down Santa’s sack.

 

What books does he read, alongside of course,

Sad kids letters, now that we’re all of us wishing

Not for the present or presents but for the still

Sainted past to come back. People will say HNY,

But then they did that last December. So many

Discerning voices are fading. We need a new one

Soon to tell us how it will or won’t be, or can’t.

Or can, if only. The current blank’s a white

 

Christmas that not even Crosby or Kaye

Could quite trust. And so we plough on

Through the mental snow that keeps falling.

On some days it’s a blizzard, while the lizards

On high shed their skin and adapt to the cold

That has been sent to crack the lake spread

Beneath us. Even Excalibur won’t breach

That one. There’s a sword stuck in stone

 

None can win. So what do I wish you

This year? Find the you in Yule and start

Over. Let the true gifts be questions

For everything wrapped and sent.

For one day someday soon what we were

Before will be gifted. Maybe not to us.

But to someone who will clearly ascertain

Where we went. He may be reborn on Friday

 

Or return on an Easter when the world is won

And these echoes are so much scattered litter

And hum. I’ll be a forgotten man then, just as

I could be now, any minute. But even if I am

I’m still wishing. I’m still writing my lists.

I’ve begun my own form of life after death

And that is something else to believe in.

I’m still looking for bliss then, this Christmas.

 

I’ll be sat with you as ghosts guide me.

Unwrap us all you’ll see shining.

 

I hope that sainted glow’s everyone’s.

 

 

David Erdos, December 23rd 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.