Liars and lovers often find themselves to be bedfellows. It seems to follow that people in authority will forever have to publicly disentangle the lies they tell about their lovers. But a scandal, after all, means evidence or admission, the end of the lie. Only the person who kept it secret so long knows the real terror of the birth and life of the lie, and perhaps it is poetry, rather than the news cycle, that is sensitive enough to trace a portrait of such a slippery subject.

What follows is a short poem from one of the our greats. No, it is not my work, although perhaps I wish that I could hold but a small flame to such greatness and understanding. I am a lover, not a fighter but those who love have passion and those with passion are strong.

I Have Longed to Move Away

I have longed to move away

From the hissing of the spent lie

And the old terror’s continual cry

Growing more terrible as the day

Goes over the hill and into the deep sea;

I have longed to move away

From the repetition of salutes,

For there are ghosts in the air

And ghostly echoes on paper,

And the thunder of calls and notes.

 

I have longed to move away but am afraid;

Some life, yet unspent, might explode

Out of the old lie burning on the ground,

And, crackling into the air, leave me half-blind.

Neither by night’s ancient fear,

The parting of hat from hair,

Lips pursed at the receiver,

Shall I fall to death’s feather.

By these I would not care to die,

Half convention and half lie.

I don't ask for response, neither admission of enjoyment, understanding, or in fact derision for those who feel the need.

Those who feel will feel, the haters will hate.

Is passion for you, can you love as well as hate? I enjoy the contrast of such feelings and it makes me feel alive.