I posted this over two years ago on the 100th anniversary of the outbreak of WW1.
This year was the centenary of the death of my grand-dad Alfred, nearly 30 years before I was born. This is for him and all the millions before and since.
Puzzle Hall Poets last Monday night. At ten o clock, tea lights were lit on each table of a crowded house, the main lights of the pub switched off, and all the open mic poems were read into the flickering candle glow. It was lovely and it was moving and it set me to thinking about how and why we remember and memorialise. It seems slightly odd to me to feel uncomfortable at the media coverage of the centenary of the beginning of WW1, but I do. Maybe it’s the distance most of the commentators have from it all, the easy platitudes and what feels like an affectation of gravitas and solemnity. Maybe it’s my age, but I don’t think so.
I was two when WW2 ended. I don’t remember that, and I don’t have any real memory of the great winter of 1947, and none at all of any…
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