Published in Mark Tredinnick, editor, NV Anthology 3, the third collection of poems of the ‘New Voices’ poetry group, Richmond Publishing, Sydney, 2018, pp. 12-13.
In warm December 1792
the Atlantic sails. Port Jackson
wails and Bennelong’s family,
Yemmerrawanne’s too,
watch ’til the ship’s a speck
beyond view. The captured
round Cape to Rio as
rain, whales and drift
bores Governor Phillip.
In May a colony’s living gifts
arrive on English soil.
Welcome, specimens!
Paraded, displayed in odd ways,
samples of Botany Bay,
taught to converse
in Englished accents,
in language obverse
to their understanding.
In Eltham, Kent,
summer was bearable,
then for our Wangal people,
seasons incomparable.
London Town on Christmas Eve –
not a great place to be
in 1793 and Aborigine.
Cold seeps into the bones
of our Antipodeans,
who recall the warm
chants of the Elora
on the banks of Parramatta
and weep with grief.
They meant well, to
fit them as naval officers
in fine double-breasted
spotted quilted waistcoat.
Dressed correctly,
They’re out of place.
The younger, good tempered,
lively lad already fatally ill.
Homesick, chilled, insanely
Bennelong watches snow fall
like ash from burning gum trees.
At a local hall they were
taken to in Mayfair,
rollicking Christmas hymns
stop. Their turn begins.
Sighs. Their native song,
Accompanied by clapsticks,
words of love, jumping for joy,
excites the throng.
That is almost all we
know of their contribution
to the Christmas cheer,
as exact words and music
are lost, only loosely transcribed.
The moment noticed,
the language unpreserved.
Lyrically performed,
music too good to scorn.
Our Saviour is born.
