Holocaust Island (5 page)

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Authors: Graeme Dixon

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Country girl

for Sharmaine

I've been living

in the city

near on fifteen years

or more

And still the neon

shines brighter

than any star

I ever saw

But every

now and then when

the wind blows

from the east

I think back

to my childhood

these memories

have never ceased

To endless fields

of golden wheat

that disappear

into clear blue sky

The squawking of

white cockatoos

as a flock

flies screaching by

Long winding

red gravelled road

leading to

lonely homestead

Feeling the ever present

spirit of Noongahs

both those living

and those dead

A mob of skinny

cousins and mates

playing chasey

through the trees

Jumping and dodging

laughing and screaming

dogs nipping

at boney knees

Dark brown wrinkled

greyhaired oldies

spinning ancient yarns

under shady gums

Though we'd heard them

many times

when they beckoned

we'd quickly come

My dark and handsome

tall strong dad

had such gnarled

blistered hands

possessed a thirst

for demon drink

earned via working

a hard dry land

My pretty and proud

hard toiling mum

whose face always

wore a frown

But us kids

were never worried

just as long as

she was around

Although we always

seemed so poor

we were rich

in other ways

We never worried

about tomorrow

being interested

only in today

Time seemed unimportant then

we never ever

rushed around

We always took it

slow and easy

in our sleepy

wheatbelt town

Those days seem

so far away

yet they're vivid

in my mind

always stored

in my heart

as secret mementoes

of my kind

Though I'm now

a city girl

who likes to party

dance and sing

Deep down inside

my country heart

I'm just a kid

from Quairading

Noongah girl

Cool southerly

on midsummer's days

Fresh sea mist

on south western bays

Smooth blue lakes

on windless afternoons

Exhilarating cold rain

in the middle of June

Beauty of nature

puts my head

my heart

in uncontrolled whirl

reminds me of you

Earth's eldest daughter

Raw sugar

Wild honey

Sweet Noongah girl

A voice like

forest parrots

that beautifully sing

Colourful as

native flowers

that bloom in spring

Seductive motion

of the waterfall

that passionately flows

Soft velvet petals

of a wild desert rose

Beauty of nature

puts my head

my heart

in uncontrolled whirl

reminds me of you

Earth's eldest daughter

Raw sugar

Wild honey

Sweet Noongah girl

The artist

I was sitting in the pub one day

sinking coldies with some mates

when the topic of conversation swung

to black artists and-how they rate

It seemed to be agreed unanimously

that Naminjirra was easily the best

'til I mentioned an artist I knew

who'd give poor ol' Albert a test

A cynical mate say “spit it out

tell us of this extremely gifted bloke”

So I took a long pull on me drink

then slowly rolled meself a smoke

“Of all the Aboriginal artists I know

there's one that stands right out

the skinny fellow at the end of the bar

Yeahâthe one that never shouts

He does his paintings with the tongue

colouring in with imagination

His artistry always reaches its peak

when in the state of intoxication

One of his most famous works

has been exhibited throughout the state

The piece of him outrunning a bushfire

smashing the four minute mile rate

Because of the running in the heat

sweat was fairly pissing out

so much in factâbelieve it or not

it drenched the flaming fire out!

Another work that stimulates my mind

is in the dying seconds of a footy game

His team was down by just one goal

and losing would've been to shame!

The artist grabbed the ball from the centre

kicking it as hard as bloody hell

so hard infact the darn thing burst

scoring a point and a goal as well!”

I rested then for just a spell

to have a sip and long deep drag

One of me mates blurted “love me drunk

you're lying you dirty rotten dag!”

I give him my famous dugite leer

with nary a smile on stony face

spat to death I was talking fact

then continued at a leisurely pace

Of the time the artist was cruising along

a nor'west highway late at night

when he hit a big red kangaroo

giving them both a hell of a fright!

He said the roo sailed through the air

smashing through front windscreen

coming to rest in the back of the car

'twas the strangest thing he'd ever seen

But nothing could be as weird

as his next imaginative colouration

but he swears it's true on his mum's grave

(she must be cursed to eternal damnation)

He said the roo just shook its head

sat up and swore a bloody oath

grabbed a stubby from his box

then poured it down his throatâ

“I've been hopping around this poxy land

for near on twenty years or more

outrunning roo dogs and shooting mobs

beating all they had in store

but knock me down if I'm lying

this is the closest I've ever been

to winding up as dingo bait

a destiny in which I ain't too keen!”

The artist claimed he was speechless

as the roo continued rambling on

But what really pissed him off

was that the roo had finished his carton!

“ya reckon you could drop me off”

the roo asked now half pissed

“Fifty K's further up the road

where lives this doe that's never been kissed”

Usually on finishing this masterpiece

he'd plead his throat was mighty dry

cadge the price of a beer

and scull it down with a contented sign

So the next time you hear them argue

which Aboriginal artist is the smartest

remind them of this cruel skinny man

the world champion bullshit artist!

Broome bound

Give me an old

Holden to mend

An open road

that has no end

A couple of bucks

to buy some juice

Face me North

then let me loose

All I need

for travelling mates

is me dog, guitar

and hand of fate

Together we'll go

side by side

Heading for Broome's

Shinju tide.

We won't starve

along the way

Rellies will give us

a place to stay

Or we'll catch

a Kangaroo

and use Mum's recipe

for stew

Camping under

stars at night

me and dog

will be alright

Singing reggae

under the moon

me and guitar both out of tune.

When we finally

get to Broome

we won't worry about a room

as all we'll need

we can reach

on the dune

of Cable Beach

We'll sing and dance

and party at night

because in Broome

the vibes are right

Sculling beer

at the old Roebuck

I hope the dog

don't get too drunk

Then one morn

I'll wake hungover

And realise,

the game is over

Then I'll beg

for a counter cheque

and head back South

what the heck!

But next year

in winter's gloom,

my heart will warm again

for Broome.

First published 1990 by University of Queensland Press

PO Box 6042, St Lucia, Queensland 4067 Australia

www.uqp.com.au

This book is copyright. Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of private study, research, criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright Act, no part may be reproduced by any process without written permission. Enquiries should be made to the publisher.

Typeset by University of Queensland Press

Printed in Australia by Globe Press, Melbourne