Years ago, I was sitting with a group of smart, creative, educated people when the conversation turned to poetry.
I had written a short poem. Before I read it, I told them Dylan Thomas had written it.
That was the lie.
They listened carefully. Then they began talking about the imagery, the rhythm, and what the poem meant. The kind of things people say when they believe they are in the presence of something important.
After they finished, I told them the truth.
Dylan Thomas did not write the poem. I did.
The words had not changed. The rhythm had not changed. Not one comma had packed its bags and left. The only thing that changed was the name attached to it.
I wasn’t trying to make fools of them. I was trying to understand something I had felt for a long time. We don’t always judge the work first. Sometimes we judge the reputation, then let that tell us what we heard.
I lied. But the lie told me something true.