Yeats’ wild swans stare into space
their heads are the shape of desire
and the shards of the end of desire.
And I’m still touched by the absurd
speed of your chemistry, and
I want you to come here
before my perspective smashes, and I long
to complicate all simple things
by wanting them with you.
And I consider the proposal, that
repressed attraction feels as destructive
to the person attracting it, as
thalidomide, and totally not
anyone’s idea of fun.
who flow in some other direction
from what it takes to be saintly.
But it’s what those swans are there for—
they daydream so much
that their days are full
of retrospective meaning. Thinking these
and other things I start to feel
like the Moghul painters who discovered perspective
but not depth. Poets,
you’ve probably heard
are an incestuous tribe,
conferring recognition by the literal
laying on of hands.
On the sort of day
when metaphors follow you around
and especially drop into your conversations,
it’s like a revelation
that Irigaray’s work on ethical passion
stumbles on that possibility
(regardless of gender)
about doing it like an Angel;
and shaping all of this into a gesture
as the world turns.
© Dipti Saravanamuttu