This poem is taken from PN Review 288, Volume 52 Number 4, March - April 2026.
Seven
1. 421
The first of January
1944 was my
birthday, in honour of which
(since I had just turned seven)
RAF Bomber Command
in its infinite wisdom
decided to blitz Berlin.
Nobody told me, of course,
though perhaps my grandfather
heard it on the radio
where he sat in the back room
twiddling the knob and moving
from voice to voice to find out
what on earth they were doing.
Four hundred and twenty-one
British aircraft were despatched
...
The first of January
1944 was my
birthday, in honour of which
(since I had just turned seven)
RAF Bomber Command
in its infinite wisdom
decided to blitz Berlin.
Nobody told me, of course,
though perhaps my grandfather
heard it on the radio
where he sat in the back room
twiddling the knob and moving
from voice to voice to find out
what on earth they were doing.
Four hundred and twenty-one
British aircraft were despatched
...
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