War all around, near and far, abstract but for the news we scroll down on our phones, quickly, so as not to ruin our Sunday meal. And we view the protagonists not as men but as pieces moved on this political chessboard by the powerful, and so today I have chosen to share this poem by Clement Rebora: Voce di vedetta morta from the book Poesie 1913-1957.

A soldier in WWI, Rebora returned horrified by the depths of pain and suffering, and his already delicate mental state would never be the same again.

In the first lines of this poem the poet describes a soldier, turned to mush, his face deformed, who appears from the stench of the explosions that have “mangled” the air. The image is incredibly strong, the words draw us into the scene by touching all our senses: the feel of the poltiglia (mush); the sight of the crespe di faccia (folds of face); the smell of the gunpowder, and the sound of the explosions, lezzo di aria sbranata.

After preparing the scene, after inviting us into the horrors only those who have lived them can understand, the poet makes a statement, a statement that can be interpreted in any number of ways, and which remains an enigma: Frode la terra. Does terra, earth, refer to reality? Or is it, like in so many other poems by Rebora, meant to underline the distinction he makes between accepting the simplicity of life and always wanting more: terra, therefore, as in land, and the wild need to conquer other lands, move boundaries again and again? In any case, terra is deceiving, tricking us into believing that war can be justified, that battles are necessary to assert our existence while in reality we are only denying the existence of others.

In the following lines, the poet speaks of himself. He, made mad by war, can’t cry, because, he says, only those who have not been touched by the horror, only the mud which comforts the victims―as if the blood, which soaks into the earth becomes a cradle of sorts, a burial of sorts, and peace, finally― can cry.

The last lines of the poem are particularly touching: The poet speaks directly to the soldier. He speaks to him of a possible homecoming, and he warns him not to speak of his pain to those who ignore the depths of it, to those who still live in harmony with life. He tells the soldier to express it only physically, in kisses to his woman that are not only plentiful but a gorgo, a vortex, violent. He tells him to whisper to her that nothing can redeem what was lost, nothing can restore this “putrefied” man. He tells the soldier to tug at her heart so tightly it will stifle her, and, he concludes, if she really loves him, he will know in time…or perhaps not.

So as war continues to rage around us on this sunny day in July, this poem is my Sunday thought to those who are scrolling through pictures of a war they think will never touch them. – M.C.

This work is licensed under CC BY-NC-ND 4.0