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.
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© David Erdos has asserted his moral rights as author of his work and has full copyright.
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