ww1

Yesterday was the centenary of the outbreak of the First World War. I'm a little uncomfortable about its 'celebration'. Because there does seem to be an atmosphere of subdued celebration rather than commemoration about it all. It´s been long planned and the built-in solemnity seems a little .....stage-managed.

Yet I don't want to appear churlish or cynical about it. I have written a fair number of poems about my grandparents' war. Yet surely the participants must have the final and perhaps only say about it all.

Yes, there are no veterans still living now who actually took part. But words remain and I think the shortest and most poignant poem of that time was one by Ungaretti:

I Soldati

Si sta come
d'autunno
sugli alberi
le foglie