Plague Poems – The First Week

It is said
that
during the plague
the bard
wrote King Lear.

Perhaps,
but how many
did not
live
to see it
performed?

When
they said
“go out”
I wanted
to
stay in.

And when
they said
“stay in”
I wanted
to
go out.

Face masks
are ugly,
hazmat suits
look vile.

Sackcloth
however
is always
in style.

I know that
you are
brave.

I know that
you have
hope.

(I know that
these words
are not
really
for you)

But if
it helps
just know
that I
unlike you
am
scared.

Editorial note: This is a collection of Plague Poems written between March 15, 2020 and March 22, 2020.

They were initially posted online on Twitter at @PlaguePoems.

Throughout the duration of this crisis new poems will be posted regularly at that Twitter account, they will then be collected and reposted here in weekly increments.

Last night
I dreamt
that
the pandemic
was already
over.

But this
fantasy
dissipated
when I awoke
coughing.

I have
a
headache

I have
a
rattling cough

I have
a
aching body

I have
a
lack of energy

I worry
that
it is the
virus

But
(I admit)
I have
felt
this way
for
years

Canned goods
and dry pasta
are gone
from every aisle

Sackcloth
may not be
edible but it’s
always in style.

I have watched
videos
of those
quarantined in Italy
taking to their
balconies, and
singing
with their neighbors.

How lovely
my neighbors and I
would sound
singing together!

If only
we too
had
balconies.

According to the
experts
we must all
now, practice
social distancing.

How fortunate it
is that
I
already have
years
of experience.

That we will
(somehow)
get through
this.

Means little
to those
who will
not.

On the third day
of quarantine
I spoke, for a time, with
my friend the rabbi.

I asked him for
his thoughts
about
the virus.

“Do not worry,”
he told me,
“They will surely
find a way
to blame us
for this too.”

“Our leaders are sick”
I stated
after reading the
latest news.

“They have the virus?”
inquired
a man
who had
(evidently)
overheard me

“Yes, probably that too”
I replied
as I
trudged
away

On the first day
of spring
I remained
inside.

I would have
so loved
to watch
the trees
blossoming
from the
(safe) vantage
of my window.

If only I could
have seen any
trees
from there.

The economy
they say
is heading towards
a
depression.

When it gets
there
it will find
me
waiting.

A man in the
street has
cried “doom”
for a while.

Sackcloth,
evidently,
is always
in style.

Secluded
in quarantine
I was kept
company by
my fears.

They say that
someone
will make a fortune
off of this
crisis.

I know not
who
that someone is but
(I am certain)
it will not be
me.

What is the
difference
between a
fish-monger
and a
doom-monger?

The
fish-monger
has an
excuse for
smelling of
death.

From the window of your
quarantine, look upon
the street

Observe the details of
the bottles, garbage bags,
old newspapers

Stare long
so that every
detail imprints on
your mind

Soon, when this street
echoes with lamentations
you shall miss the
litter you currently
see

Abandon your hopes
that the situation will
improve.

Are you not paying
attention to the
news?

If you must still hope
then you must be
realistic!

Just to hope
(that things will not get worse)
is enough.

At least, this is what my
great uncle
always said.

Plague Poems – the following week

Plague Poems…the full list

About Z.M.L

“I do not believe that things will turn out well, but the idea that they might is of decisive importance.” – Max Horkheimer librarianshipwreck.wordpress.com @libshipwreck

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