Swimming with Whales by Yogesh Patel (Skylark Publications, U.K., 2017) 76pp.
Review by Pramila Venkateswaran
A whale finds itself in the Thames unawares and struggles to get back to the ocean, revealing both its might and its vulnerability. Yogesh Patel expertly uses the whale as the metaphor of the immigrant who finds himself in uncharted territory and is both aware of his heritage and suffers the plight of the exile. Although the theme is old, it is as fresh as ever not only because of the times we live in which is fraught with the disputes over migration, but also because the whale in myth, history and fiction allures us with its magnificence and precariousness. In a strange paradox, the poet feels the whale welcomes the one who is not welcomed by society.
With wit and lyricism, Patel invites us into the whale’s world, a.k.a, the immigrant’s: the whale astounds us with exclamations and questions; it even says Namaste as it breaches. But we harbor the painful knowledge of what humans do to this amazing creation. Drawing an analogy between the dead willow whale and people alone and neglected, the poet fervently hopes: “No one should be alone in this world.” The poet desires the freedom of sea life: “I elect to swim like a salmon / wild, free, leaping, without a moan.” But, instead, the exile/whale feels disenfranchised. In “Disenfranchised,” an autobiographical poem, Patel sees himself, African, Indian, and British “sings in a school assembly / asserts he is loved by history,” but although he is “clutching his British passport,” “he is rediscovered as an alien.” The sarcasm in the poem gives way to the haunting lines:
“We are apostrophes
We are bones
We are bones
We are bones
Whale and I”
The fate of the exile is to persist: “you never migrate from the state of migration / Stop swimming / Stop migrating / And you are dead.” The poet/migrant dwells in paradox: “I am a migrant afraid of home,” for the sea is a scary world after having been tamed in a tiny pond; so “Homelessness is my sanctuary!”
The image that opens “Namaste” is a visual treat: the analogy between the gesture of Namaste, flame and whale, the latter two both well-oiled and “splitting the darkness” invite us to hope. In “One Ocean,” the poet exhorts us from giving into illusion:
“Tell the ocean
Not to be fooled by a man
Holding a broken mirror
Peddling a lie
That it shows an ocean divided,”
for we are indeed one, the poet asserts.
Along with Patel, we swim with whales / immigrants, all the while aware of who we are, our realities, however stark and broken they are; we experience both the pain and beauty of the poet’s world.
With wit and lyricism, Patel invites us into the whale’s world, a.k.a, the immigrant’s: the whale astounds us with exclamations and questions; it even says Namaste as it breaches. But we harbor the painful knowledge of what humans do to this amazing creation. Drawing an analogy between the dead willow whale and people alone and neglected, the poet fervently hopes: “No one should be alone in this world.” The poet desires the freedom of sea life: “I elect to swim like a salmon / wild, free, leaping, without a moan.” But, instead, the exile/whale feels disenfranchised. In “Disenfranchised,” an autobiographical poem, Patel sees himself, African, Indian, and British “sings in a school assembly / asserts he is loved by history,” but although he is “clutching his British passport,” “he is rediscovered as an alien.” The sarcasm in the poem gives way to the haunting lines:
“We are apostrophes
We are bones
We are bones
We are bones
Whale and I”
The fate of the exile is to persist: “you never migrate from the state of migration / Stop swimming / Stop migrating / And you are dead.” The poet/migrant dwells in paradox: “I am a migrant afraid of home,” for the sea is a scary world after having been tamed in a tiny pond; so “Homelessness is my sanctuary!”
The image that opens “Namaste” is a visual treat: the analogy between the gesture of Namaste, flame and whale, the latter two both well-oiled and “splitting the darkness” invite us to hope. In “One Ocean,” the poet exhorts us from giving into illusion:
“Tell the ocean
Not to be fooled by a man
Holding a broken mirror
Peddling a lie
That it shows an ocean divided,”
for we are indeed one, the poet asserts.
Along with Patel, we swim with whales / immigrants, all the while aware of who we are, our realities, however stark and broken they are; we experience both the pain and beauty of the poet’s world.
