Kung Fu Summer

One summer, in metalwork, we made
shurikens, Chinese Death Stars
we had seen in Bruce Lee films.
At home we made our own nunchucks,
from cut down broom handles and door chains,
practiced for hours, bruising elbows and heads,
getting nowhere, but trying hard.
How do you do the one-inch punch?
We bought Kung Fu Monthly, with fold out posters
of Bruce, his toned torso artfully slashed, 
and Chuck Norris, his side-burned disciple.
I found Bruce too showy, too loud, 
preferred David Carradine as Kwai Chang Cain,
Shaolin Priest, all inner peace and quiet strength,
and calm, where Bruce was not.
We threw our stars at trees, broke our nunchucks,
argued about style, signed up for lessons we never took.
By the end of the holidays, most of us had moved on.
I went back to birdwatching, discovered Camus
and Kerouac, punk rock and interesting girls,
contemplated killing my father,
then studied hard for my exams.