I wrote this poem inspired from a video on Facebook where actor Shareena Clanton drops some facts on white folks that comment on things they know nothing about, like Indigenous Australia.
At its core, it’s simply thinking in numbers like the Georgians and the Victorians did. Look at post-slavery Jamaica in colonial times (Morant Bay Rebellion) for example. In Australia, It’s just happening NOW.
All the indigenous people of Australia are on fire,
their history now etched into folklore.
Presumably, the non-indigenous people are here
laughing behind a smokescreen.
Black folk, 230 years beside
the wind-ripped Union Jack flag.
Okay, they weren’t literally on fire.
Maybe how the chalk lines lie made me think
they were ablaze, as the white strokes flaunt
in the outback and make a festival of itself.
The tribes are nearby, exactly my point;
this is their land but it’s The Queen’s Birthday.
It’s their patch, featuring a foreign sovereign,
letting her crown conflagrate history;
taint the soil, reduce it to ash, bid it to beg
for new earth like freed slaves.
Indigenous Woman wore,
besides her confidence –
pragmatism, and Pan African
colours in her chest.
To them she is violent in debate.
She walks in their direction
and she gets there and says:
we want to be the author of our destinies,
not instruments in political ballgames.