“There’s not much you can say in 28 minutes” Professor Marcia Langton *

Poetry Sunday edited by Ira Maine

Today we feature Mr Lionel Fogarty, Indigenous poet. 

This is what Wikipedia has to say of him:

Lionel Fogarty (born 1958) is an Indigenous Australian poet and political activist.

He was born at Barambah (now called Cherbourg Aboriginal Reserve) in Queensland where he grew up. He has been involved in Aboriginal activism from his teenage years, mainly in Southern Queensland on issues such as Land Rights, Aboriginal health and deaths in custody. His brother, Daniel Yock died at the hands of police in 1993. His poetry, while in no way dismissable as simply ‘political poetry’, can be seen as an extension of these activities on another front. Common themes are the maintenance of traditional aboriginal culture and the everyday realities of European occupation. Among the most ‘experimental’ of contemporary Australian poetry, his work has sometimes been described as ‘surrealist‘. Certainly large amounts of Indigenous Language, which white Australians sometimes find confronting, are employed but in part as an attempt to further dialogue between Australian cultures.

Fogarty has been involved with not-for-profit poetry organisation, The Red Room Company, participating in Unlocked, a program for inmates in New South Wales correctional centres, as well its creative projects including Clubs and Societies and The Poet’s Life Works.[1]

Partial Bibliography

• Yoogum Yoogum. (Penguin: Ringwood Vic., 1982)
• Ngutji illustrations by Lyn Briggs. (Spring Hill QLD: Murrie Coo-ee, 1984)

• New and Selected Poems, Munaldjali, Mutuerjaraera. (Melbourne: Hyland House, 1995)
• Minyung Woolah Binnung: What Saying Says. (Southport QLD: Keeaira Press, 2004)
• Dha’lan Djani Mitti: Collected Poems. (Cambridge: Salt, 2007?)

 

 

FIRST OFF HIS TRIBE CASTRATED.

We ant’s your modem Aborigines

We ant’s your code to heaven

We ant’s your talking without a face

We ant’s your sterilized irrefutably chords.

I the man who not wrote but action the words

Ringing or humming in your mother bear summer night’s daily scents.

I am the one you don’t want me to be those platitudes off the society dirty glib.

I am in your hand when your lovers sit lazy to your carvings.

Worms of hope jump in ears for the smell churn in your air.

Moulding sleepy hostess are contrives in marrow purpose I cunningly let by.

Beaten tourist is I before the mixed pride traded are bones alone.

Vanished coach emu’s flight defiled the every move we made satisfied.

On the ledge a shade cheating feather weathered this totem man gently and were he’s spirit methylates.

We ant’s your herald Aborigines no feral

We ant’s your half stumble benches back for spears can’t broken, for hearing.

We ant’s your bread recognized ray to race

I am sundown up-sun every night you all don’t want me desolate

We ant’s your oration invaders,

Generation will spilt blood yet not our blood rocks.

Mr Lionel G Fogarty VIC MERTON DEC 20 2012 TIME PM 6.30

 

* 2012 Boyer Lecturer Marcia Langton on John Faine’s Conversation Hour 21 February 2013.  (In fact she said four lectures were about 28 minutes (each) and then made the statement quoted above)