TONIGHT, IN THE AIR by David Erdos

 

TONIGHT, IN THE AIR

Phil Collins looks old. Older than his years, reversed

Imaged. Torn by conditions and his troubling wife,

He ploughs on. Playing once more with the band

Whose name has always conjured beginnings,

With Rutherford and Banks there beside him,

Here’s hoping renewal is sculpted, or carved

Through rock song. What else is in the air then,

Tonight, on this biblical Sunday? The start of a week

That sees lockdown, wrenched like old bones

From a grave? Will we find new ways to be free

In this Government defined peoples prison,

And will Biden’s midweek breakfast taste bitter,

Or, if he can remember how to discern,

Become sweet? Even now as I write, the same

Selfish fools will be shopping. As toilet rolls

Become gold dust, and sanitiser as rare as God’s

Tears, I think of a Genesis stalled, not only for

That famous group, but all people, including

Peter Gabriel and Steve Hackett, and including

Those countless others, either concluding or starting

Soundtracks and themes fuelled by fear. And of

How to overcome it, of course, and continue

The work talent promised in perhaps a fresh world

Of endeavour where the stages become more like

Church; sacred services sent to celebrate all we’ve

Suffered. Memorials to the meaning of the songs

We have sung to soothe hurt. Between lockdowns

I know everyone will have made their own albums;

From musicians to poets, to friends of all types

And stations making screenshots no doubt,

Of zoom calls. As well as painters of course,

And the numerous self tapes of actors; each one

A set, or, collection of how far we may or may

Not be in the fall. We will try each of us to drown out

The sound of what’s coming, moving through air,

Tearing water, like the Spielbergian shark in his prime,

Those famous two cello notes can be heard,

Almost as if threat itself had a heartbeat, that Phil

Collins’ son will now bass drum as this week’s

Tension accrues to mark time. But will that mark

Be made with a wait, or, a wound, as the part freedom

Found between lockdowns begins a new drowning,

To which not even Phil could ‘lend a hand.’

Just where then, exactly is God’s sound, stave, or line?       

It is that very tension, I fear; a John Cage kind of silence.

In which our imprisonment will be longer than Four Minutes

Thirty Three. Silence binds. And then sends us back

To the book that we always hope may explain things.

As well as us in so doing. In this new beginning.

Its coming. A story of either stopping, or, starting.

And from out of darkness, too. Fate’s roadsign.

David Erdos, 1st November 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.