A few moments, first. Reverence for the masters –
A sudden blow: the great wings beating still
Above the staggering girl, her thighs caressed
By the dark webs, her nape caught in his bill,
He holds her helpless breast upon his breast.How can those terrified vague fingers push
The feathered glory from her loosening thighs?
And how can body, laid in that white rush,
But feel the strange heart beating where it lies?A shudder in the loins engenders there
The broken wall, the burning roof and tower
And Agamemnon dead.
Being so caught up,
So mastered by the brute blood of the air,
Did she put on his knowledge with his power
Before the indifferent beak could let her drop?William Butler Yeats, 1933
Photo by Wikimedia
Too many unaccountable to name –
A maiden here, Queen Leda there, but then
And always Zeus stood ready for the blame.
What can, but sex, explain the tastes of men?
Be mindful, if you have the will to do,
We give to gods a strength we cannot bear
To claim our mortal own as men, rough-hew
It as we may. No closer view we dare.
But Yeats, he got it right – possessive rape
When nudity releases male desire.
How yet unfair, a man cannot undrape
And turn a lustful goddess into fire.
‘Tis fine the line that separates wild passion
From a rape. And where it dwells is hers,
Alone. Apart, in privacy, from fashion
And repute. Within her heart it blurs.
O! Love! Thou art a self-imagined yearn
When fervor battles goodness for the throne.
When memories of splashing whiteness turn
The touch of rush into a lover’s groan.
He needed me to care, that I believe,
His arching, cloudlike neck, his graceful wings,
That left me never wanting him to leave.
And failed to fill what only caring brings.
The power and direction of his touch.
His godly manliness. His form’s appeal.
The wet and gentle ease. He was too much
To be but one divine. And I to feel.
And I? I was the moment of his pleasure.
The purpose of his passage to the pond
To clench me tight and find Earth’s fabled treasure
Against my will, to form an endless bond.
To sudden, unprepared, and haunted mating
A woman’s soul must gracefully react?
To know not whether I am ever waiting.
How can I possibly let go of that?
A child of rape, or the love child of ardour?
Whether ‘tis nobler for a woman’s choice.
To bleed? Or heal? Which question is the harder?
I’m sorry, Sir, I have the final voice.
Photo by Wikimedia
