Poetry lies its way to the truth.

The poet and teacher John Ciardi once spoke with paradox upon his tongue: “Poetry lies its way to the truth.” At first, these words seem to wound, for how can lying ever bring us closer to what is real? Yet the ancients knew well that truth is not always reached by the straight road. The path to the sacred often bends, cloaked in symbol, riddle, and myth. So too does poetry, which, while seeming to invent, exaggerate, or disguise, carries us nearer to the heart of existence than bare fact could ever do. The lie of poetry is not deceit, but the mask that reveals, the dream that wakes, the shadow that shows the shape of light.

The prophets of old spoke in visions and parables, not in reports. Did not Nathan the prophet come before King David with a fable of a stolen lamb? He did not accuse the king directly but told a story—a “lie” in form—that pierced David’s conscience more deeply than any blunt accusation could. And David, upon hearing the tale, cried out in rage at the injustice, only to hear Nathan’s thunderous reply: “You are the man!” Thus, through the “lie” of story, truth struck the heart like lightning. So it is with poetry: its imagined words awaken the reality we cannot see plainly.

Ciardi’s insight reminds us that mere fact often fails to move the soul. You may tell a man that time is fleeting, and he will nod indifferently. But recite lines of Shakespeare—“Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow creeps in this petty pace from day to day…”—and suddenly the weight of mortality presses upon his spirit. The “lie” of metaphor and rhythm does not obscure the truth; it delivers it with greater power. Thus, poetry is the golden tongue that shapes lies into truths that the human heart can finally feel.

History, too, bears witness. Consider the enslaved in America who sang spirituals beneath the lash. Their songs spoke of rivers, of promised lands, of chariots swinging low. Were these literal? No—they were lies if judged by factual standards. Yet within them burned the truest truths: the longing for freedom, the faith in deliverance, the knowledge of human dignity. Those who heard them knew that the metaphors carried more reality than the chains upon their wrists. Poetry thus became their secret weapon, carrying truth beneath the cloak of song.

The heroism of this idea lies in its defiance of a narrow world. There are those who demand plain facts, who scorn imagination as deceit. But Ciardi, like the poets of every age, declares that the imagination is itself a road to the eternal. The warrior seeks truth through battle, the philosopher through reason, but the poet—ah, the poet bends the bow of language, shoots an arrow of metaphor, and though it flies in an arc, it strikes the target more surely than the straightest line. This is why the ancients gave poets a place beside seers, for both spoke in riddles that carried the marrow of reality.

And so the lesson for us is clear: do not despise the “lies” of art, of myth, of parable. They are not deceptions but lanterns, casting light upon mysteries too vast for plain speech. In your own life, when truth seems unreachable, do not fear to approach it sideways—through story, through symbol, through poetry. Speak to your children not only with instructions but with tales that awaken wonder. Confront injustice not only with statistics but with words that stir hearts to action.

Practical actions flow from this wisdom. Read poetry aloud, and let its metaphors work within you. When faced with truths too heavy for direct words—grief, love, faith—reach for parable, song, or image. Write down your own experiences in story-form, not to deceive but to reveal the deeper meaning behind them. And above all, remember: the truth is not always found in the straight line, but in the winding road where poetry lies its way into your very soul.

Thus Ciardi’s paradox is no trick, but a teaching. Poetry lies—but its lies are wings. And by them, humanity is lifted closer to the eternal truth than facts alone could ever carry us.