It seems a
silent world out there, but I believe a lot of fellow poetry bloggers appreciate
the work of our Australian poet, Bruce Dawe.
Enough for me to post another of his poems that is one of my
favourites. It’s called, at shagger’s funeral (I promised it some
time ago).
At a first
reading the poem appears to be a simple, light hearted account of a group of young
blokes who attend their mate’s funeral service and things are a bit awkward
because they are out of their comfort zone participating in a religious
ceremony with the mother and family, while all the time knowing what their mate
got up to when he was alive.
But when I
read the poem again in light of - Bruce Dawe’s background, the definition of
the term ‘shagger’, and the era in which the poem was written, I start to think
there’s a lot more to it. First of all,
what is the meaning of the term ‘Shagger’?
This is a nickname that these mates gave to their friend (lower case
used in the poem title, upper case when referencing the person). The person would have earned the name from
reputation. You are more likely to find
a definition of ‘shagger’ in an urban dictionary than you will in your student
Oxford or Collins – “it’s a word used by the lads to define someone who is a
seducer of young, vulnerable women; or a person, mainly a guy, who sleeps with
many people over a short period of time.”
Put it this way, you wouldn’t want your mother to know that your mates
called you “Shagger”. It’s the back
slapping and Monday morning snickering among blokes. But it does set a person apart, for whereas
most blokes might maintain a certain level of morality and standards that are
normal and acceptable among the group, the ‘shagger’, given the chance, will
‘shag’ anybody and anything, anywhere, anytime!
So that’s
the type of person Bruce Dawe is writing about.
Bruce Dawe spent time in the RAAF as a young man in the 1960’s/1970’s so
he would have been thrown in with young men from all backgrounds – some of who
would earn the reputation ‘shagger’.
Dawe also came from a Catholic upbringing in an era when the Church’s
strict moral teaching was being challenged by the revolution of hippie free
love, the pill and sexual promiscuity. I
can only imagine that Dawe didn’t totally agree with it all (contra to his
upbringing). And that’s what I think
comes through in the poem. Below the
light heartedness, Bruce is passing judgement on male hedonism that, while it
may appear fun (“or that didn’t end up in
a laugh – at his expense”), cool in the eyes of your friends, clever even;
- the behaviour is sinful, and the sin ruins loving relationships (“there wasn’t much to say”; “as if he’d
really been a son and a half”), and it blinds and turns one away from
preparation on earth for life hereafter, and as for all the supposed friends
who abided and encouraged ‘Shagger’, we are also culpable.
The last
two lines leave us with a personal consideration of the need to be always ready
and prepared for death. Also, how did
‘Shagger’ die? His death obviously came
upon him suddenly. Dawe is suggesting
that if he had pondered upon meaning and mortality, then he would not have
lived as he did. “Caught with his britches down” in the literal context of the poem
implies ‘Shagger’ met his end when he was on the job, in the middle of
‘shagging’. Perhaps an irate husband
came home unexpectedly (“by death, whom
he’d imagined out of town”), or reference to the “old shag-waggon (reclaimed Ford)”, could suggest he was ‘shagging’
in the back of his panel van parked in a lay-by when the car was cleaned up by
a truck. I don’t think there is an
actual event given in the last lines, “caught with his britches down By death, whom he’d imagined
out of town?”
‘Caught with your pants down’ is a common phrase for any situation where
you are surprised unawares. ‘death, whom
he thought was out of town’ is a common phrase for not being always ready to
meet death who can strike unexpectedly.
at shagger’s funeral
(Bruce
Dawe)
At Shagger’s funeral
there wasn’t much to say
That could be said
In front of his old mum
– she frightened us, the way
She shook when the
Reverend read
About the
resurrection and the life, as if
The words meant
something to her, shook, recoiled,
And sat there, stony,
stiff
As Shagger, while the
rest of us, well-oiled,
Tried hard to knuckle
down to solemn facts,
Like the polished box
in the chapel aisle
And the clasped
professional sorrow, but the acts
Were locked inside us
like a guilty smile
That caught up with
us later, especially when
We went round to pick
up his reclaimed Ford,
The old shag-waggon,
and beat out the dust
From tetron cushions,
poured
Oil in the hungry
sump, flicked the forsaken
Kewpie doll on the
dash-board,
Kicked the hub-caps
tubercular with rust.
The service closed
with a prayer, and silence beat
Like a tongue in a
closed mouth.
Of all the girls he’d
loved or knocked or both,
Only Bev Whiteside
showed – out in the street
She gripped her
hand-bag, said, ‘This is as far
As I’m going, boys,
or any girl will go
From now on.’
Later, standing
about
The windy grave,
hearing the currawongs shout
In the
camphor-laurels, and his old lady cry
As if he’d really
been a son and a half,
What could any of us
say that wasn’t a lie
Or that didn’t end up
in a laugh
At his expense –
caught with his britches down
By death, whom he’d
imagined out of town?
In any poem I’m always looking for
the ‘content’ and ‘crafting’. Take a
look at the crafting of, at shagger’s funeral. This is a brilliant example of rhyme because
it is so unobtrusive – nothing about it is forced, and it stands as testimony
that the art of poetry is about rhythm and rhyme, rhythm and rhyme.
Having said that, I
now offer my poem for the post. My poem
has no rhythm and has no rhyme, but it was written as a tribute to my
admiration of Bruce Dawe.
2006. I
bought a poetry book from a second hand bookshop in Hunter Street
Keeping Pressed Flowers
Somebody,
it
seemed,
loved
Bruce Dawe,
enough
to press rose petals
in a
paper-backed edition of Dimensions.
eleven
petals.
is that
the number in a bloom?
between
Antonio’s Brother,
and
Malouf’s Snow,
like
eleven pixie ears
patterned
with fine veins
dried
to brown tissue now,
but the
flower must have meant something
once,
when it grew
in a
garden,
or was
cut long stemmed and single,
to be
kept forever.
was
there a girl,
where
is she now?
74’s
such a long time
to
expect the scent
or the
red to remain, a reminder
of
quickening heart.
what
love,
because
this is not the book
you
would press rose petals in,
too
light,
too
soft,
too
disposable,
to
serve as effective press,
or to
save from being thrown out
in the
end,
before
checking for sweet,
pressed
flowers
anyway,
I won’t
destroy them,
but I
think maybe I will move them,
between
Clark’s, Her Time,
and
Powell’s, Madonna and Child, perhaps.
J. O. White
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