We must compensate the man for the loss of his gun

We must compensate the man for the loss of his gun,
give the killer some other dummy or throbbing thumb
to suck upon that does no harm – some placebo for
the stunned exhilarations of goosesteps, the barking
square-bash, that gleaming rash of medals, and all
the petty tyrants of his tattoo-thrumming heart. Yes,
we must compensate the man for the loss of his gun,
because there he goes, wanting it again, like a toy
chucked out of the bassinet moments ago. Hear
him crying for it? “No, I don’t want art, music, poetry,
science. Those things are no fun. I want to
pummel something. Mum, I want my gun!”

Hear that hum? His Lancasters and Messerschmitts
have come, and he must be bombing London and
Berlin. Hurry! Compensate him quickly! He’s out
to slay the monster he made the last time he
got caught out fingering the
trigger of his long,
disgusting
gun.

Poem and pastel by Giles Watson, 2014. The title of the poem, and many of the ideas in it, are derived from Virginia Woolf’s essay, ‘Notes Under Fire’, written in London during the Blitz. Her home and office were flattened a month after the essay was written. See: www.newrepublic.com/article/113653/virginia-woolfs-thoughts-peace-air-raid-1940