Poetry: ‘Life Cycle’, by Bruce Dawe
Henry Joseph Santamaria
Ben Santamaria is a father! Congratulations to all.
This is one of footy’s finest poems and one of many brilliant poems by Bruce Dawe.
Life Cycle (for Big Jim Phelan)
by Bruce Dawe
When children are born in Victoria
they are wrapped in club-colours, laid in beribboned cots,
having already begun a lifetime’s barracking.
Carn, they cry, Carn … feebly at first
while parents playfully tussle with them
for possession of a rusk: Ah, he’s a little Tiger! (And they are …)
Hoisted shoulder-high at their first League game
they are like innocent monsters who have been years swimming
towards the daylight’s roaring empyrean
Until, now, hearts shrapnelled with rapture,
they break surface and are forever lost,
their minds rippling out like streamers
In the pure flood of sound, they are scarfed with light, a voice
like the voice of God booms from the stands
Ooohh you bludger and the covenant is sealed.
Hot pies and potato-crisps they will eat,
they will forswear the Demons, cling to the Saints
and behold their team going up the ladder into Heaven,
And the tides of life will be the tides of the home-team’s fortunes
– the reckless proposal after the one-point win,
the wedding and honeymoon after the grand final …
They will not grow old as those from the more northern states grow old,
for them it will always be three-quarter time
with the scores level and the wind advantage in the final term,
That passion persisting, like a race-memory, through the welter of seasons,
enabling old-timers by boundary fences to dream of resurgent lions
and centaur-figures from the past to replenish continually the present,
So that mythology may be perpetually renewed
and Chicken Smallhorn return like the maize-god
in a thousand shapes, the dancers changing
But the dance forever the same – the elderly still
loyally crying Carn … Carn … (if feebly) unto the very end,
having seen in the six-foot recruit from Eaglehawk their hope of salvation
Read Peter Baulderstone’s tribute to Bruce Dawe HERE.
Read John Harms and a greeting from Bruce Dawe HERE.
Read Bruce Dawe’s poem The High Mark HERE
To find out more about Almanac memberships CLICK HERE
About Almanac Admin
Love this piece, used it as a base for my yr 12 English exam.
That jumper would be enough to give the poor little bloke colic.
Come on Phil — get on board the mythology express!!
Disagree Dips.
A young fella couldn’t wish for a better start in life. :)
I reckon Dawe is taking the piss a fair bit in this poem. He marvels at the mythological possibilities with his tongue firmly in cheek. I also think this poem may be a little outdated since the National competition, but it certainly still captures the hyperbolic language of hope in footy fans, particularly at this time of year.
I love the line about having the wind in the last quarter. So much hope and expectation in that line. I prefer ‘High Mark’,but this still rates if not read too seriously.
Don’t know whether anyone heard the Coodabeens this morning. They played a tape of the actor Annie Phelan reading Dawe’s Life Cycle. Annie is the daughter of Big Jim Phelan to whom the poem is dedicated.
Phil, I reckon affectionate irony is a better description of what Dawe was doing than “taking the piss.”
Dave, you’re right about the affection, but I still reckon there is a satirical element that overrides the affection. Cultural cringe perhaps?
The poem say a lot about the dilemma of the exile. Dawe is writing about something that had already passed — even when he wrote it.
A marvellous poem – and I see Bruce is alive and well and writing poetry today in The Australian’s letters page.
One of the great last lines in poetry.
PB , I think he’s within the idea,. We can know the absurdity of something and still believe.
Cheers
PD, I mean
Not a follower of footy but as I’m from Eaglehawk, I know quite a lot about it. Eaglehawkites love the game, but they are one -eyed about their team..”Go you two-blue angels” , roared one supporter at a match I attended.. The two blues- Light blue and dark.blue -were the club colours. My dad was the barber in town and instead of the traditional red and white poles, they were the two.blues. Red and white were the colours of South Bendigo. I love Bruce Dawe’s poem and his mention.of the Mighty Borough.
great story mate
great work, good fellow he was. shame he couldn’t kick the ball very far.
I,ve met him..but not known him…we passed like ships in the night…now time to reflect…ah well..lots of time for that now..i think. Ex RAAF.