Lockdown Sonnets

Some four thousand new cases every day, And round about three hundred people die. Is that a lot? Of course we want to say "One death's too many!" Yeah, but that's a lie. We've always been prepared to tolerate Some death to get the things we have today. Wide fields of needless graves facilitate The anxious, well-fed lives we while away. How many might be added to the bill? How many can we drop into the ground Before we say "Enough!" and find the will To turn our current practices around? Who knows? But still, I think we can assert We won't be helped by crap like "Stay alert".

When you've fallen off, shush. Reconnect. Slowly sinking in, familiar, strange. Familiar books like faces. Voices out of range. Faces whispering. Indirect. Calm like company, trees recollect. Calm like change Settled in the pickle jar. Colours rearrange. Windows reflect. Between the in-breath and the out-breath, the pause. The oiled hinge facilitates the door. A hum which hardly registers as a sound. A lull between effect and cause. The tide relents, retreating from the shore, Releasing the drowned.

Fretful like wind in the chimney breast. Is the world still out there? I suppose. In some sense, somewhere. Guilty, bored, depressed. I couldn't be arsed getting dressed Or brush my hair. Between various meals I stare At the TV without interest. Let today be done. Sweep it away. Pointless guff. The hour has run. Nothing to say. Enough, enough.

I fancy a day off from doing these So let's keep it brief. Warm sunny day. Builders next door hammering away. Breakfast. Walked into town to Sainsbury's: More gin, rump steak, salad stuff, cheese. A few people on the streets; mostly they Kept their distance. Still, I'd say The lockdown is creaking. Days like these It's hard to resist the pleasures of outdoors. Staying in like me (watching Murder, She Wrote ) Seems the greater crime; the forecast's cold After today, so everyone ignores The wagging fingers. Days when the overcoat Is cast aside, like the vulnerable and the old.

Lockdown! Drink up! Celebrate VE Day! The Greatest Generation , and All that. Let the whole nation band together in pious sentimentality Over Something most know only from TV Or films. "Remember!" - I truly don't understand What's meant by that, however grand The tone. What about what ? For me, Of course, it can mean my dad - But that's just it: I actually do Recall their humdrum faces, their elsewhere eyes. Sanctification is an insult to the sad, Haunting truth they lived through. We are celebrating lies.

It's a striking thing about life today How keen we are to be indignant, pontificate. When something bad happens we can't wait To get on Facebook or Twitter and join the fray. We can't rest until we've had our say, Booming in the Voice of Reason our great Insights, and slapping down the fools we hate With logic and hilarious memes. We slay Them endlessly, but somehow they don't die. In fact, they have the cheek to claim they've won And we're the fools! Neither side will admit That reason's not the issue. I can see why: If reason can't get the job done We might need a harsher way to deal with it.

French toast is not a skull upon the fire, Wipe up the blood, check Watson's brought his gun, This file contains a photo of a nun, The spider weaves her dream of Warwickshire. Five empty bottles silently conspire Against me, but I'm hid beneath the sun. Lord Byron's testimony has been done. The fairies bide their time behind the wire. I'm scattering the ashes of the day And rolling up my liver in the bin, A spell against insane utility. Keep meaning and the builders far away; A secret ink to expiate all sin And hang unspoken papers on the tree.

I check the stats each day, but more and more I wonder what's the point? What do they show? Do even the compilers really know? Across the different nations, what's the law Ensuring uniformity? Still more, Which tests do different cases undergo? The charts look so definitive: each row, Each column, clear just like a cricket score - Who knows what's hid behind? And even worse, Supposing that the figures are correct, I still don't know what message they convey; Is x new cases good, or the reverse? But still I check them. Why? Well, I suspect The dream of knowledge keeps my fears at bay.

A litre of cheap brandy coz why not? Been up since 4am and wrote till noon. I'd like to get to bed before too soon But first I'm going to have another shot And finish this before I lose the plot And put on Spotify and play a tune And sing along too loud like a buffoon And wish that I could do things I cannot. I'll stay up far too late - I know, I know - Grow maudlin as the brandy slips away And stick a post on Facebook I'll regret. But I don't mind; I'm going with the flow; It's been a quietly productive day - Come, Drunkenness, and wrap me in your net!

At least today has felt like Sunday - well, So far as days can feel themselves right now - Six episodes of Columbo in a row, Some Haydn string quartets to cast a spell While writing poetry. And then the smell Of coffee in the moka pot, and how Peaceful it's been without the builders' row Since they've stopped turning Sundays into Hell. But isn't every day a bit like this (The builders notwithstanding) now there's no Depressing thoughts of work next day to sour Sundays and Wednesdays alike? I miss The shape time used to have: the curving flow Of different flavoured days, hour after hour.

How quickly, then, I find myself in May, For surely it was still March just last week? The fire was on, the trees were bare and bleak, I worked from home and still received full pay. And it felt good to be alone all day Without the need to listen or to speak To customers. And I could even sneak A quick nap in to pass the hours away. But now this freedom starts to seem a bore; I miss the customary workplace chatter, And find I'm either hyper or subdued. Both going to bed and getting up's a chore, I'm thinking less and less, and getting fatter; Unravelling on my island, like Decoud.