FLASHES OF ESSENCE

   POEMS in PERSON

  by

   KEVIN GILBERT

Kevin Gilbert is an award-winning poet and author whose works are represented nationally as resource material in literature, drama and Aboriginal Studies in secondary and tertiary institutions.  In this collection of poems is heard the universal voice of spirituality, love and time, which speaks to all of us.

 His first book Because a White Man'll Never Do It, published by Angus and Robertson in 1973, won critical: acclaim as the first major political work by an Aboriginal. Kevin Gilbert is recognised as the first Aboriginal playwright with his play The Cherry Pickers, which was written in 1968, first performed in 1971 and published in 1988 by Burrambinga Books.  Living Black, a complete oral history, was published by Penguin Books in 1977 and won the Book Council Award in the following year. Next came People Are Legends, a collection of his poetry, published by University of Queensland Press in 1979.  In 1988, Kevin Gilbert edited and participated in the first major anthology of Aboriginal poetry called Inside Black Australia, which included 44 poets from across Australia and was published by Penguin Books.  For this work, he was given the Human Rights Award for Literature but he refused to accept on the principle that Human Rights have not yet been achieved by Aboriginal People in Australia. "Tree" and "Won't You Dad?", which are recorded on this cassette, were published in the anthology.

In 1990, Hyland House published another poetry book ‘The Blackside: People Are Legends and other poems’ from which several of the recorded poems have been taken.

TREE

I am the tree
the lean hard hungry land
the crow and eagle
sun and moon and sea
I am the sacred clay
which forms the base
the grasses vines and man
I am all things created
I am you and
you are nothing
but through me the tree
you are
and nothing comes to me
except through that one living gateway
to be free
and you are nothing yet

for all creation
earth and God and man
is nothing
until they fuse
and become a total sum of something
together fuse to consciousness of all
and every sacred part aware
alive
in true affinity

WON'T YOU DAD?

If all the lovely melodies
in all the world were ever sung
and all the masters' masterpieces
in the greatest galleries ever hung
and all the statues David and
the poems and the works of man
were to burn bright for deaths delight
throughout our land

a little child looked up and smiled
and beamed with pride and love and joy
and said: `You won't let them drop that bomb
on me Daddy.  You'll stop them, won't you Daddy?'

His question mark
was like an arc all ringed around
with burning flame
I said in loving confidence:
`We'll stop them, child'
but in my heart is fear and burning shame
I actually PAY the Man
to make the BOMB
I pay him Tax to sing
his song of hate
I keep the war-dog on his chain
I help to feel and feed his hate
I PAY THE MAN to make the bomb
to hold the world and my child in fear
I close my heart to human beings
as if afraid
when love draws near

It's ME who's wrong
it's ME who'll burn the song
it's ME who'll burn the lovely melody
because I fear other humans near
who may somehow flood human love to me
the flame will burn and melt the eyes
of my children as they turn
to me and say with love for me
and faith today:
`You will stop them from dropping the bomb on me
won't you Dad?'

WHERE NOMADS TREAD

A sun scorched sea
that aeons ago
was home of leviathans
now
burnt sand
where nomads tread
unkist by soothing rain
or snow
incarnadined by desert glow
the profound awe-filled
spaces teach
the nobler truths
that minds can reach
past sombre silenced gold.

WHEN CHILDREN MARCH

Children marching
holding flags
slogans written on their rags
bright with hope
their chants boom forth
clamoring justice
children's wrath
falls like flights of angry birds
upon the seats of power
onto the tyrant's crown
and bloom like some proud
and virile thing
demanding of that gross
that knavish king
come to justice
now!

Children marching
holding flags
slogans written on their rags
bright with hope
their chants boom forth
clamoring justice
children's wrath
bloom and flower
a strong and proud and virile thing
waves of love pervade their being
clearer, louder we are hearing
what they're chanting
what they're saying
WE ARE LEGENDS!
we are  legends
we shall know
shall hear shall see
shall feel shall bend
shall break shall fall
shall reap the crops we sow
for legends win
legends always win
eventually
and legends never die

IN MEMORIAM: PEARL GIBBS

Another little history passed
and cast her bones upon the mound
of other bones all cast about
who cast their pearls upon the wind
where winds' soft fingers now caress
to tinkle strange Aeolian songs
of justice echoing her truth
her hopes her now defeated breath
like warriors torn upon the fields
of battle crawling home.

NOONI'S BUNYIP STORY

`My aunt, my father we all lived in that old humpy by the river.
Each night at sundown. They, the funny fellas would come walkin' so the women locked the doors and pulled the wood things over the windows.
Every night they did this thing and no one could go out until the morning came again.
One night, Moodgee, we looked out the cracks in the wall
     and seen them.  Jumping quick as wallaby when the spear just nicks him.  Behind the trees they were.
We went to bed.  All of us.  In my aunty's bed we were.  Hot it was.  Hot.'

He puffed the pipe.  His eyes slipped furtively past mine and probed hesitantly into the dark. 
His body quivered closer to the fire.

`Hot.  Hot night.  Forgot the water. Forgot, my old aunt did, and the kids started cryin'.
Three big sisters they were.  The biggest ones were.
They got the rifles. My father, him, he got the shotgun. Aunty, old aunt carried the lantern. Walked down to the river, they did.

`The biggest girl, she knew someone was watching her.  She stood straight.  Lookin' she was. Eyes were there and watchin', funny fella eyes.
Her sisters called,”Get the water, quick, Nulina!”
Big one she was.  Strong. Bent down, dipped the bucket in.
Eyes.  Big red eyes they was. In the water there.  Bit it did.
     Bit her arm.
She cooeed. Hit the eyes with the bucket. Father used a shotgun.
She was strong, she was.  Pulled away. Half her arm torn out.
     Clean.  Cut clean like a boomerang cut.
Next day, father, aunt went to the river. No tracks.  Nothing.
     Only a big red and black feather covered with blood of Nulina.

`Father, soon he got wrinkled up.  All about his face. His legs like the blue crane.  He died. All screwed up he was.
When aunt went to put flowers on his grave, She found a big    red and black feather.
No bird with feather like that in our country.

`Nulina, she ran away with Nurran. Had a baby. Foot like a duck it was and its head like a big paddy-melon. All wrinkled up, it was. Black. Legs like a blue crane. No meat.

`Nulina, she came back one day. Sun in the middle of the sky.
She walked down into the river and didn't come up again.
We looked, but we couldn't find no more red and black feathers.'

TRUE

I know you're wrong when you claim you're right
And your truth is black when you claim it white
Still, you believe and I know, I know
That we all must tend the land we hoe
and live to the dreams we dream
And we all must rise to the beck'ning sun
That guides us all on the race we run
And you believe, I know I know
That your truth is true <196> yet a coal-black snow
Is as white as the truth you claim.
Yet you believe and you hold the right
To believe a lie is truth, is light
Is a Beckoning Star in Abysmal night
And as true as a man is true.
I know you're right when you claim I'm wrong
That I'm out of tune with your own sad song
For you believe and to me it seems
That your feet of clay keep your heart from dreams
And away from a Nobler truth.
I know, I know that the plant you grow
Is a bitter tree that the wise men know
Bears a fruit that is bitter-sweet
And I believe <196> as I see you grieve
That the light was dimm'd since Adam, Eve
Sprang from the basest clay I know
That your feet are clay and we all must sow
The crop that we each must reap
Yet you believe and you can't be wrong
For each man's truth is another's wrong
And we each must walk that path alone
To reach the deepest depths; a throne
Of truth till a truer comes
And I know, I know that we slowly grow
The times will come and the times will go
And we will shed the shrouds of `sin'
That man-made-brass-bound keeps us in
A closet - away from truth
Yet you believe, and I know, I know
That man must crawl before he grows
And man must leap and often fall
Yet Aeons pass and still you crawl
Still you believe and I know; I grieve
     I know.

FIRST CONTACTS

 The white swans had landed so huge was their seeming

as swiftly they skimmed o'er the calm glassy sea

as I am Karndooli I stood there dumbfounded

for surely I dreaming roamed lands of Ba'aime.

Oh Ba'aime Great Spirit land heavens creator

these they are teeming with strangely clad gods

they call in strange tongues and their bearded face gleaming

and clasped in their hands are strange spears or wood rods.

They all come to greet me - a small wooden vessel

it bears them so swiftly across the calm sea

the swans are NOT swans - oh strange is the creaming

of white crested waves and the great wings flap free.

They spread o'er the beach land their hands raised in  greeting

and presents they'll give me to pass o'er my land

the roar of their short spears - smoke from it anointing

is tainting my skies as my blood flows through sand.

CHILD'S DREAMING

Within our hands
caress enfold as dreamings flow
to love and teach and guide
the soul and heart
in all the sacred things
that we hold dear
and wisdom in our heritage impart.

NEW TRUE ANTHEM

 Despite what Dorothea has said
about the sun scorched land
you've never really loved her
nor sought to make her grand
you pollute all the rivers
and litter every road
your barbaric graffiti
cuts scars where tall trees grow
the beaches and the mountains
are covered with your shame
injustice rules supremely despite your claims to fame
the mud polluted rivers
are fenced off from the gaze
of travellers and the thirsty
for foreign hooves to graze
a tyranny now rules your soul
to your own image blind
a callousness and uncouth ways
now hallmarks of your kind

Australia oh Australia

you could stand proud and free
we weep in bitter anguish
at your hate and tyranny
the scarred black bodies writhing
humanity locked in chains
land theft and racial murder
you boast on of your gains
in woodchip and uranium
the anguished death you spread
will leave the children of the land
a heritage that's dead

Australia oh Australia

you could stand tall and free
we weep in bitter anguish
at your hate and tyranny.

NIGHT FLIGHT

Isn't it beautiful

homes twinkle below

out on the horizon

ships quietly glow

isn't it wonderful

being alive

here in the clouds

man filled with his drive

has flown to such heights

that it surely please God

but down on the ground still

you feel the beast plod

surely we marvel

these things we attain

technologically speaking

would make us refrain

from the chasms and passions

rampant down there -

from the base and the coarse

and our ego's sharp snare

yet we grow and there's growth

to'ard the God-state we seek

in time terms infinitesimal

our steps to that peak

the mad and the crazy

religious or sane

on God's endless treadmill

walk on - on again

we grind on quite mindless

and blinded it seems a series of shadows

and staccato dreams

with flashes of essence

of spirit a flood

we evolve and

emerge from our

substance - our mud

to wallow like buffalo

feet bogged in the flood

our hearts brimmed with anger

our eyes filled with blood

computers all programmed

to save effort, breath

push-button warfare

and opting for death

Isn't it wonderful

lights twinkle below

technologically speaking

the world sure will glow.

About:

Kevin Gilbert is Wiradjuri and was born on the banks of Kalara, the Lachlan River, Condobolin, New South Wales in 1933.  His life has been one of outstanding commitment to Human Rights and justice for Aboriginal Peoples and for a better quality of life for all in this country.

His political involvement came to the fore in the early 70's with the campaign for Land Rights with the Gurindji.  In 1972 he was an inspired creator and instigator for the formation of the Aboriginal protest, which became known as the Aboriginal Tent Embassy in Canberra.  From this move flowed a greater international awareness that became possible only by the dedication of the Black national heroes, who confronted the inhumanity of white Australia with their heads against police batons.

Kevin Gilbert was Chairman of Treaty '88.

These poems are essential listening for anyone who loves fine poetry and wishes to deepen their understanding of the essence of love, life, human compassion and the effects of injustice against the modern survivors of the oldest continuous living culture in the world today.  The poems also embrace concerns for the environment and the nuclear age.