If you are Seamus Heaney I’m the pope.
Wash your mouth with strong carbolic soap.
Only conmen talk about the truth.
We lie, in bed and up, from our first youth.
And what the hell is truth I’d like to know?
Rashomon’s characters all tried to show
themselves in the best light. Each person told
a story of their heroism. Lies
are truth unless we learn to analyse
the guilty gestures of the plausible liar.
We each narrate the story we desire.
Truth is a fiction bruited about
by theologian bullies who fear doubt
of dogma that they preach. They rage at free
spirits who regard with levity
the pompous self aggrandisement of those
who try to lead the people by the nose.
A bit of fluff for Rose, a kitten played
with dandelion seeds. The kitten strayed
entranced by thistledown till it was lost
in grass so long that all the paths it crossed
were hidden and the kitten was afraid
of everything it saw and so it made
a high-pitched squeaking mew which moved a mouse
to bring the kitten home into its house.
It fed the kitten on organic wheat
and all the dandelions it could eat.
The kitten and the mouse became attached
and any time another feline watched
the mouse the kitten boxed its ears and sent
it scampering. And thus they were content
in symbiotic bliss. The kitten grew
and dreamed that by mistake one night it slew
the mouse and so regretfully it left
and wandered through the world, a cat bereft
of love and happiness until a bird
consoled it with a friendly peck. Absurd
to think a cat befriended mouse and fowl.
The mouse alas was eaten by an owl.
The bird fell victim to a hunter’s gun.
The cat became the cat who walks alone.
So Rose, the fluff became a tale of growth.
You have the fluff and truth--a bit of both.
[This message has been edited by Janet Kenny (edited June 04, 2004).]
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