A Living Room War


When I was young we played at war, We gloried in the battle’s roar. Our weapons – only make believe; We’d shoot with fingers, stop and heave Our hand grenades, just bits of wood; Perhaps we’d stop to see who could Die best, the most dramatic, like, Then hurry home on foot or bike At lunch time ’cos us soldier kids Ate meals the size of dustbin lids. But always, always, back we came To finish off our deadly game.


It was, therefore, a culture shock, That distant war, that barren rock. When TV pictures, framed with sound, Showed broken bodies on the ground Instinctively I had a hunch They’d not be going home for lunch.


Phl Carad e i r ic


Bananas


I have in my hand a banana and one cannot write with bananas, bananas aren’t writers of any great shakes: My Lord, I face my Doom… cannot be written by a banana.


You cannot write: She did not come, the poule-au-pot was had by one who shared it with the dog… things like this cannot be written if you have in your hand a banana.


If a banana you have in your hand you cannot write I face my doom, she did not come… it is a banana, and though we live in wondrous times, some things can, others can’t be done.


J rooks . B e


24


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