WHEN THE RAIN

 

WHEN THE RAIN

In the past, when the great rains came races prayed

To the spectacular Gods on the mountain. Today, no God graces

This particular relief from the heat, as now a strange silence starts

After a fiery roar through the suburbs, torn by Thursday’s London

Monsoon and high anger with which no former scorn or rage

Could compete. I hadn’t slept for a week, a refugee on the floor

Of my lounge, back doors opens, daring my neighbours cats

And night foxes to Poseidon up from doused gardens

And scavenge me out in my lair. Death by stain or possible

Consumption perhaps, after nearly two weeks of near madness,

In which I watched the world warp within me and before me too,

Undeclared. You could feel the blood rise and hear it bubble

About you, as if the forces that form from the body were signalling

Out through fleshed screams. I would have torn my skin like a coat

To expose the core’s call for cooling. I would have wrenched

My hair that lays heavy if I could have climbed up freedom’s flight

Towards dreams where the world is not as it is in terms of this

Climate of souls and the weather. As the heat in turn, felt like judgement:

The shock of God’s scorn, the fused blush. Which stunned us all

In our seats as I felt my body shock itself into stasis, and I was

Prematurely old. And surrendered. assaulted by burning and blame

In hate’s rush. I certainly hated all things, perspective through

Perspiration extinguished. And it has taken this calming lapse

To cure and return me after watching the encompassing flush

Of God’s piss. Storming us, like a horse in a watered torrent of fire,

Screaming at the ground for what’s happened, by replacing

With smite the sun’s kiss. Which was akin to that of Judas, I’m sure,

As it left a scar on all senses and a scar on skin also as the pigment

Within became singed. You could feel your heart turn to ash

In an internal barbeque of the body. Now that the rains have come

Have their saved us or in washing us clean just revealed

The mire we’ve made, just as my wasted week was ‘Atlantised.

I feel like fallen prey. As I type this it has started again. No burn

Heals. It is simply covered, part masked. But you remember it still

In the body. Last night I thought of a higher ark cresting

And of own body caged in the flood. From the fire and steam,

To the boil, with my caucasian skin turned to lobster,

From parched ocean floor, Covid parted, to the seas of disbelief,

All our blood. A certain intensity has now passed, in which

The prisoners’ shouts have been sated. But was this just one glass

Of water intended to soothe our protest? Or the first of many

That show no further tribulation awaits us? When is water

Warning? Why, when you’re all at sea. Fate sets tests. Or God does.

Or space. Or skies as slaves to the climate. Sometimes the rains

Drown the mountain. Perhaps this is something that we all should expect.

David Erdos August 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.