THE DEATH OF MY BIRTHDAY by David Erdos

 

THE DEATH OF MY BIRTHDAY

As far as I know, this year I received no Facebook

Happy Birthdays. I took the hint blithely, knowing

That to age is to fade in some realms. Not that

I checked, or even thought to look at it, and yet the lack

Of content's a comment on the particular social hand

We're all dealt. I also got very few in the flesh, so to speak,

Which is perhaps a little more wounding. To those

Who sent, or were lost to life, I am grateful but there

Was something else going on; some form of removal

From sense, or, if not sense first felt then from purpose,

As if the rearranged light on new stages stripped life

Of its drama and further abbreviates its short song.

There were many close friends who sought to say

Nothing, as if such an act was admission for the precision

And path of what's changed. Between us all, I should say

And not the lack of personal feeling engendered;

For just as distance divides us, so the subtraction

Weakens and warps time's exchange. What I seemed

To have been give was proof that I was no longer

Essential to anyone else but the shadow  may seek

To display in stark light across an increasingly closed

Gallery , to which I no longer have access, or, will

Even get to glimpse briefly when the projected opening

Times are deemed right. And where I will see other lives –

Chiefly those I once knew - as slow structures, as I in turn

Become statue and a statute, too, no-one fights.     

Or, possibly knows how to defend as the separation

Of souls moves to claim us and the days I once prized

With others are now lost glistening jewels cast to night.

I would naturally say, despite this, that there is no point

To self pity. The celebration of birthdays is ego,

And there are many in turn I have missed.

So, please know that I speak only about separation,

And that the long howl heard now in houses would soon

Transmute into pleasure at the touch of a friendly hand,

Or, love tryst. So, while without it, I'm numbed, but will

Continue to work away at the absence, both here in this poem

and in the pauses to come; fresh returns in which the phrases

Found between friends construct a rhyme with the past

That's still needed; as I raise my empty glass to ghosts given,

The birthday cake creases and each candle folds as souls burn.

As well as steam. And so  I lease my lasting wish to air wasted.

Return, love, to mark me. Or, to show them where I was.

Time still learns.

David Erdos September 14th 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.