THE NEXT DAY by David Erdos - Poem 12 from THE PEOPLES PRISON

Poem 12 from THE PEOPLES PRISON

THE NEXT DAY

I’ll be honest. After thoughts of suicide just last week,

This one has seen some form of revival. I have talked

With friends, my near daughter and created with a new

Comrade in arms, a sound show. I have written a new

Full length play, as well as a number of poems.

And watched those classic films that cause comfort,

To rush to the heart and eye, as tears glow.

 

Scent of a Woman for one; of which I have been

Sorely lacking. The Odd Couple, or, single which is how

I perhaps fear myself. Billy Wilder’s The Apartment.

How apt, as home and exile surround us. As well as

Some Like it Hot in cold weather, scenes in which

I emphasised with Jack Lemmon forlorn in drag or rain

While waiting for an enchanting Shirley Maclaine

 

To bring health. These were somewhat obvious films

For a time of true transformation in which the chrysalis

We’ve been caught in has hardened and healed

And been split, by a freshly challenging light which

We seek to tame as it settles, attempting to label it

As sky signal, or fire perhaps from dark pits. I walk on

A butter knife edge each day as I try to come to terms

 

With the future: One day it’s all over and with

Everything gone, the die’s cast, while come the next

I detect a faint glimmer in which people will see

Through the prism that in refracting hope makes it last.

A form of illusion, no doubt. A trick of the light. A mask,

Mirrored, in which the blocked kiss may still travel

Despite the ghosts of day and the grave. Simply,

 

Those both lost and removed from all previous

Understanding. Now, these fallen loves fuel fresh fires

From which post-Christmas gifts can be saved.

And so the next day arrives and feels no different

In form than the former. We have all become predecessors

And descendants too of past life. There is even a film

About that: Bill Forsyth’s Being Human. What does

 

That feel like? As I, a non husband strive to connect,

Time’s a wife, who will either stay with me, or leave,

Before recalibrating for others. As they begin, am I ending,

Or will I indeed seize the day? Nobody knows.

So we make a magnum opus now of each moment.

As I remember a song she sang to me from Lurman’s

Moulin Rouge: Come What May. It isn’t up there

 

With Jack, or Pacino, or Shirley. It isn’t up there

With Ingmar Bergman whose Fanny and Alexander

Still stuns. But it transports me still, all the same,

As I try to stall my foreclosure. There must and will

Be dreams to start over to be thrown into the blazing

Heart of far suns. Masterpieces now must be made.

They’re the proper cure for contagion.

 

After the last day, the next day. Whether fifteen,

Fifty, or eighty, if this is what you can learn

To either mistress, or, master, then as time takes you

And still you fight the dark, you’re the young.

Tonight I will probably dream of her. Tomorrow,

I hope I’ll forget her. And then see your face,

Coming closer. Maybe then I’ll know I’ll have won.

 

David Erdos, December 5th 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.