WHO WON THE WAR? by David Erdos - Poem 4 from AT THE GATES

 

WHO WON THE WAR?

 

 

Who won the war? No-one knows. As in the main,

States recover. And yet, now, there's a new war,

Easily replacing the old: of the self. I set about it

 

Each day, as I settle down beside Netflix,

Immersing myself within product while mine

Falters, broken, and literally left as it is, on the shelf.

 

And clearly bound by them, too; galleried as I am;

A stacked story. With pages unturned, few are reading

As we all consider and chase our own tale. But made

 

Near agoraphobic by this, today I went on my own

Talking Head's Road To Nowhere, venturing towards

The closed shops of Uxbridge, and in search

 

Of a part of the past that can't fail. Or, part of another

Story, now told, as the weather withdraws the cold given.

And yet there are no avenues now to warm me,

 

And no waiting arms to arrange. Instead, I have been

Sending messages out from the front as I become

Both my own foe and victim. But today, I dared the air's

 

Presumed shrapnel to follow the untested battlefield

Within range. An unmasked Police car sped past

And the public sidestep continued. This fascist salute

 

Formed by footsteps has seen the country's circumference

Truly change. Now, the people trace it like ghouls,

Concentrically challenged. Joggers concentrate within circles

 

That stretch the balloon made from breath, which will either

Burst when all we were before has been wasted,

Or, return to the mouth, a kiss granted, as if it were

 

A last shot at life before death. Unnaturally, I still don't know

What to do. I have lost my shape and my purpose. But a bleating

Sheep is just background in a ruined field no-one sees.

 

And so I graze out in warm air, or in a kind of dream

During rainfall, shedding ghosts to cure chaos;

For once the honey's held, where's the bee?

 

I know those Flanders flowers still grow, as do the weeds

Around Auschwitz. Across each soil war seeks congress.

So, lay down your arms. Touch has cost now.

 

But as far I know, love's still free.   

 

 

David Erdos February 6th 2021

 

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.