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The private self cannot be loved.

Celebrity love is really true.

Love is only a public love.

In private, she’s annoyed by you.

Everything offends

Our group, and its public membership never ends;

You thought, by stealing into this private cave

You would escape all the offended crave:

Justice for every public insult publicly jotted down

Or whispered in the public ear, dancing in a racy gown,

Heavy coats-of-arms hanging on the wall,

Bonafides with slender hands and tall,

A privacy that has no privacy at all;

Nothing backs it up, nowhere at the end of the day

To go; nothing’s nice; public notice will have its public pay.

Should you stumble into the private arms of one

Who rendered once, public proof of love, sorry, the sun

Has new sets of eyes, a public is always burning

New surfaces; only publicly is love now learning

Our truth: privacy is nothing—only the dark,

Where fleet hounds who kissed you, bark.







  1. maryangeladouglas said,

    April 16, 2019 at 2:24 pm

    What a phrase: “Only publicity is love’, sickness of our Age. Some kind of counterpoint of Thomas Wyatt here. Fantastic poem. Fantastic.

    • maryangeladouglas said,

      April 17, 2019 at 1:40 pm

      The word “bonafides” shines out like a talisman in this poem every time I read it.

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