The Sandstone Blog
Bullet
The Imperial War Museum North in Greater Manchester is running a Don McCullin retrospective to mark his 75th birthday. You can read about it here http://bit.ly/crvwPY and admire some of his images as well as the man himself. This seems a good time to republish this poem from a few years ago. There is no sign of its relevance passing far less the importance of McCullin’s noble stance.
Bullet
Today I saw the picture of a child
shot in the head by accident
on the periphery of the economic system
I live and work and pay taxes within.
When the war ends my nation state
has committed itself to a permanent,
peace keeping force that will convert
or destroy the evil-doers.
We will provide factories, roads,
work that can be managed cheaply.
We will establish English in the schools.
In time they will absorb our ways.
The process was begun long ago.
For years they have hankered after
our denim jeans, our television dreams,
our guns, but had little to trade with.
Reader, forgive the absence
of music in this poem.
Music, I know, has a vital magic,
but do not ask too much of art.
Child, do not look at me that way
from the photograph of your death.
You were killed by a bullet,
you were not killed by me.