Bruce Dawe - and Easter poems

Easter is approaching and I’m thinking, who are the Christian or religious poets among my favourites?  I think poetry, by its nature leads one to reflect on life and the spiritual nature of things – nearly every poet I’ve read has dealt with the subject in some way as part of their work, pondering on God and the meaning of life.  But in the Christian calendar, Easter is not a time for questioning.  It is a time for knowing that Jesus died in a brutal, human flesh manner that perhaps only affords acceptance through it being seen as a willing and necessary sacrifice.  That’s why I like this poem on the crucifixion written by Bruce Dawe, ‘and a good friday was had by all’.  To me, Bruce Dawe has a way of writing cleverly for the common man – conversational language that puts you right there with Jesus and the soldiers as they are nailing him to the cross.  Sometimes it’s helpful to reflect on things as we know them from the world of our own experience in order to progress to the unknown, or things we don’t understand.  Dawe’s poem looks at it through the eyes of the common soldier doing his duty – he doesn’t like it, but he’s ‘signed the dotted line’ and has got to trust that the ‘big men’ know what they are doing.

and a good friday was had by all

(Bruce Dawe, 1930 -)

 

You men there, keep those women back

and God Almighty he laid down

on the crossed timber and old Silenus

my offsider looked at me as if to say

nice work for soldiers, your mind’s not your own

once you sign that dotted line Ave Caesar

and all that malarkey Imperator Rex

 

well this Nazarene

didn’t make it any easier

really – not like the ones

who kick up a fuss so you can

do your block and take it out on them

                                                          Silenus

held the spikes steady and I let fly

with the sledge-hammer, not looking

on the downswing trying hard not to hear

over the women’s wailing the bones give way

the iron shocking the dumb wood.

 

Orders is orders, I said after it was over

nothing personal you understand – we had a

drill-sergeant once thought he was God but he wasn’t

a patch on you

 

then we hauled on the ropes

and he rose in the hot air

like a diver just leaving the springboard, arms spread

so it seemed

over the whole damned creation

over the big men who must have had it in for him

and the curious ones who’ll watch anything if it’s free

with only the usual women caring anywhere

and a blind man in tears.

The times I read, and a good friday was had by all, I find myself reflecting on the words the soldier addressed to Jesus, “orders is orders ……… nothing personal you understand – we had a drill-sergeant once thought he was God but he wasn’t a patch on you ………”  They are a soldier’s words spoken honestly and show no hatred or malice, spoken man to man, with a tough admiration.  I can’t help but feel that Jesus would have blessed those words.

In my poem, I also reflect on the act of Jesus’ crucifixion.  I had a whole day to reflect – hiking with my family on a Good Friday.  The content was running through my head as we struggled over alpine hiking trails.  At the end of the day I just wrote what I had thought and felt – very quick poem, capture it like a dream.  One day I may come back to polish it – but maybe it is as it is ………. happy Easter.

2012.  We travel down to Thredbo and stay at the Navy ski lodge for the Easter weekend. None of us attend church service, but I know these mountains and alpine region won’t let you off that easy from celebration and worship.

Good Friday on the Main Range

 

5:30

Under the shower,

this is Good Friday,

our Lord would be

being whipped and scourged,

a long night of no sleep.

I make the first cut

on our leg of ham (sandwiches),

the Jews didn’t eat pork,

forbade it

because it was prone

to be full of disease and parasites,

another social rule

enforced by religion.

good friday,

what will the people say,

when they see us eating ham?

 

6:30

I’m ready, keen

to get around to Charlotte Pass

and our walk on the Main Range,

for some reason, Matthew

drags the chain,

deliberate protest against authority?

Jesus pissed the authorities off,

why would he do that?

Didn’t he expect they’d kill him?

Sitting, waiting,

whatever happened to authority?

Now, collaborative decision making

means everybody’s guilty.

 

9:00

We’re finally started,

carrying jackets and thermals.

They’d be nailing Jesus

to the cross now,

hauling him up

to hang in the air,

physical exertion begins

on our Mount Calvary,

climbing out

of the Snowy River valley,

my heart is beating too fast.

Jesus’s heart,

his physical heart,

the heart of Jesus,

essence of Jesus,

God,

they say it takes hours and hours

for a person to die from crucifixion,

we’ve only just begun.

 

12:00

Up, we seem to be ever

climbing up,

clouds blacken in anger

beyond us.

For a people of signs,

it’s a wonder they never saw

the signs.

Out on the range

there’s no protection from the wind,

it howls and stabs,

deliberate and horizontal

at our bodies,

we’re walking in cloud

being shredded and re-formed

over tough alpine plants,

giving no illusion

that death in these parts

could be very close at hand.

The women, the women

at the foot of the cross,

would be howling

and wailing by now, how long

will they have to wait

and watch?

We know it’s another three hours,

one hour to Kosciosko,

two to Seaman’s hut.

 

3:00

Trudging

as bowed monks

strung out,

along the road

to salvation.

The road’s a brown line

drawing the eye away

to creek crossings

and snow depth markers,

each at 25 metres

set to leaning angles,

like crucifixion poles.

They could crucify hundreds here,

the Romans used to do that,

line the roads and leave them.

These they had to get down

before sunset,

so they broke the legs

of the thieves

and stuck a spear

in Jesus’ side.

 

Surprisingly, devout hikers

armed with light camping gear,

pass us going out.

It’s Good Friday.

We have witnessed,

the devil’s fury

will have no mercy

here tonight.

                             J. O. White