15 thoughts on “deceit

  1. Woah… never failing to surprise here… a bit of a shock, and sad to read… wrote a bunch of other words in this field, now deleted that, however sincere, are very likely not wanted, needed nor applicable here… anyway, hope all is ok…

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    • Your thoughts are always wanted. And appreciated. This verse was just another moment of me remembering years ago how I would lie to myself about how everything would be okay with my mother, how I still had lots of time to make things right, until it was too late to do or say anything that mattered anymore. And my self deluding voice fell silent when she died.

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  2. “The dead leaves spin and scratch the street..”.. I know it is not the meaning of this precious poem, forgive me, but it was the first thing I thought of. I’m still tripping over the fact that you know Donaghy. Do you know how many people know Donaghy when I mention him? No. One. No one ever does. And still I try to persuade them, I fall all over myself trying to make them understand the crushing brilliance of a poem like ‘Deceit’ or ‘Habit’ … ah, but I am rarely if ever successful. And it always breaks my heart a little that I failed to make him real.

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    • I am very happy I could share this with you, then, Allison. Although it could be said that my familiarity with Donaghy was accidental. Then again, how much of life is not? I believe we (literature students) were exposed to Donaghy briefly in the context of ex-pat Irish poetry. He was born in the US, I believe. New York? But it stuck with me, how he referred to his people as magicians. There’s a poem of his–Excuse–in which he explains his father setting up contraption–a trip wire of sorts–that would allow him to make it sound like there was someone at the door when his brother on the other end of the line was blethering on and on. Don’t know why that in particular stuck with me. It made us all laugh. And I guess it too ties in with thoughts of deceit. Years later, I discovered that he had recorded himself reading much of his poetry, and I remember feeling again a bit of deception in that–however unrealistically–I was expecting to hear an Irish accent. And yet, he did not even sound New York, let alone Irish. But you know what? I still love his poetry. Maybe because of that–because I cannot easily pin it down. And yet it is still so accessible.

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