Random Acts of Poetry
Tall Tales, Gwendolyn MacEwen
It has been said that I sometimes lie, or bend the truth
to suit me. Did I make that four hundred mile
trip alone in Turkish territory or not?
I wonder if it is anybody's business
to know. Syria is still there,
and the long lie that the war was.
Was there a poster of me offering money for my capture,
and did I stand there staring at myself,
daring anyone to know me? Consider
truth and untruth, consider why they call them
the theatres of war. All of us
played our roles to the hilt.
Poets only play with words, you know; they too
are masters of the Lie, the Grand Fiction.
Poets and men like me who fight for something
contained in words, but not words.
What if the whole show was a lie, and it bloody well was--
would I still lie to you? Of course I would.
(The "I" is Lawrence of Arabia)
It has been said that I sometimes lie, or bend the truth
to suit me. Did I make that four hundred mile
trip alone in Turkish territory or not?
I wonder if it is anybody's business
to know. Syria is still there,
and the long lie that the war was.
Was there a poster of me offering money for my capture,
and did I stand there staring at myself,
daring anyone to know me? Consider
truth and untruth, consider why they call them
the theatres of war. All of us
played our roles to the hilt.
Poets only play with words, you know; they too
are masters of the Lie, the Grand Fiction.
Poets and men like me who fight for something
contained in words, but not words.
What if the whole show was a lie, and it bloody well was--
would I still lie to you? Of course I would.
(The "I" is Lawrence of Arabia)