by Graeme Dixon
Table of Contents
Title Page
HOLOCAUST ISLAND
Foreword by Jack Davis
Prison Spirit
Prison
Black death
Regrets
Escape!
Yigga’s run
Battle heroes
Darryl
Genocide
Prison spirit
Holocaust Island
Doomed prophecy
Re-enactment
W.A.S.P. /S.W.A.T.
Six feet of land rights
Holocaust island
When
Home
Asian invasion
Pension day
Single Mum
Where?
Oldies
$2 a bottle dreams
Hypocritic sponsorship
A unfortunate life
To let
Black magic
Country girl
Noongah girl
The artist
Broome bound
Copyright
HOLOCAUST ISLAND
Graeme Dixon was born in Perth in 1955. Between the ages of ten and fourteen he lived in a Salvation Army Boys Home, before being expelled from high school. He was in and out of reformatories and at sixteen ended up in Fremantle Prison where he spent most of the next nine years. His first poetry was written in prison.
At twenty-seven, Graeme Dixon began tertiary study and later completed a course at the Western Australian Institute of Technology (now Curtin University) on politics, communications and Aboriginal Studies. He has a strong interest in Aboriginal history and is currently furthering his studies at the University of Western Australia.
Editorial consultants: Jack Davis
Oodgeroo Noonuccal
Mudrooroo Narogin
Also in this series:
Paperbark: A Collection of Black Australian Writings, eds Jack Davis, Stephen Muecke, Mudrooroo Narogin and Adam Shoemaker
Bobbi Sykes, Love Poems and Other Revolutionary Actions
Forthcoming titles:
Joe McGinness, memoir Mabel Edmund, life story
To all our Brothers and Sisters
who died in custody
May their souls R.I.P.
Foreword by Jack Davis
Graeme Dixon first saw the light of day in Katanning. His was to be a life of almost complete institutionalisation. His mother was Aboriginal, his father a migrant orphan from England who deserted the family of three children when he, Graeme, was two years of age. The next four years he spent in Sister Kate’s home. Circumstances changed for his mother when she married again, but because he bore a resemblance to his father, his stepfather disliked him and in his own words, “I kept my distance from him and generally kept my thoughts to myself.”
Upon moving to the Gnowangerup–Borden area in the extreme southwest of the state, his stepfather deserted the family which had now grown to six. Two brothers and three sisters were placed in a home. This time the Salvation Army orphanage. But they were separated, his three sisters were placed in a different home to that of him and his two brothers. In Graeme’s words “In the orphanage I soon discovered what type of kid the Salvo’s desired. If you kept quiet and didn’t show too much emotion you were classified as a good boy.” Many a time the administration tried to adopt him out, but he would purposely misbehave and they would change their minds. He was eventually not wanted at fourteen years of age for becoming drunk and was also expelled from the Hollywood High School. He was sent back to his mother in Katanning where for a short time he found some of the happiness which was denied him for so long. But the only friends he made were ex–orphanage Aboriginal boys and they altogether were enjoying their first real taste of freedom in their lives. But the type of freedom they enjoyed was to see the young Graeme Dixon in a reformatory at fifteen and at nineteen in the Juvenile Yard in Fremantle Prison and from then on he was to spend every Christmas and birthday, from his sixteenth year until he was twenty-four, in prisons. But in the prison atmosphere, where feelings are repressed and weaknesses taken advantage of, he began to write largely as he says in his own words “to get things off my chest”. Unfortunately, he destroyed most of these early writings because as he puts it “I didn’t feel safe with my feelings lying around the cell for the prying eyes of the screws.” At twenty-five years of age he decided to keep out of jail and settle increasingly, but understandably enough, into a lifestyle of alcohol and drugs. Eventually, he was hospitalised and it was then that he met his wife Sharmaine, who recognising his talent as a writer, urged him to further his education and coaxed him into sending his poetry in as an entrant for the inaugural David Unaipon Award, which he won. Now he is also enrolled as a student at the University of Western Australia.
Most of his poetry deals with the life he had been forced to live in the past to survive. Others express the love and the loss of his Aboriginal people.
Now at thirty-four years of age, Graeme Dixon, Poet, has plenty of time to learn his art as a weaver of words and his craft as a writer of verse.
Prison Spirit
Prison
Prison
what a bitch
Brutality
Savageness
Depression
Is all caused by it
Must’a been
A wajella1
Who invented this Hell
Wouldn’t know
For sure
But by the torture
I can tell
To deny
A man freedom
Is the utmost
Form of
Torment
Just for
The crime
Of finding money
To pay
The Land lord’s rent
Justice for all
That is
Unless you’re poor
Endless days
Eternal nights
Thinking
Worrying
In a concrete box
The disease
It causes
In the head—
I’d rather
Have the pox
Because man
Is just
An animal
Who needs to see
The stars
Free as birds
In the sky
Not through
These iron bars
There must be
Another way
To punish
Penalise
Those of us
Who stray
And break
The rules
That protect
The taxpayers
From us
The reef
Of humanity’s
Wrecks.
1 Wajella—white person Back
Black death
For forty thousand years, our ancestors
Caressed our fertile seed
and tended to the weaning
Gave us life then we were freed
a living part of Dreaming
encased in living flesh
But now the fruit is hanging
in cells of bars and mesh.
Now those links eternal chains
have been torn asunder
as the guns in Whitey’s hands
spat lightning flash and thunder.
They sat midst the dirt and flies
alone and in disgrace
But behind those saddened eyes
are angry words and screaming
aimed at those in uniforms
who killed those of the Dreaming.
Regrets
I started stealing cars
at fourteen-years old
Trying to impress me mates
Proving I was bold
Flying around in V.8.s
Baiting the manatj2
Jesus! life was exciting
Full of thrills, spills ’n’ laughs
When I did get caught
Didn’t worry me at all!
I knew I’d only spend
A coupla weeks in Longmore
And it wouldn’t take too long
To be back on the streets
Prowling for cars to steal
Manatj to defeat
My teenage years flew past
In and out of trouble
Never realising
White law would burst my bubble
but it finally happened
When officially I became a man
The magistrate gave me
Eighteen months in Freo can
Shit! That sentence stung
Dulling the fire in my eyes
One of me mates escaped
Via prison cell necktie
I tried to convince him
A coupla months ain’t long
But it was no bloody use
His spirit had already gone
It’s hard for any man
To be caged in a prison cell
But if your skin is black
It’s like burning in hell
Being locked up by wajellas3
Glaring at you with hate
Counting down the hours
To your earliest release date
But as the bible says
“All things come to pass”
My time eventually came
To be free at last
My experiences caused me
To attempt a brand new life
With no more thieving
Or getting into strife
I confidently set out
Searching for a job
I had even decided
To avoid me old mob
but everywhere I asked
I got for an answer
“May we have a look.
At your driver’s licence sir?”
My past had returned
Haunting me like a spook
I couldn’t find no work
No matter how hard I looked
This made me finally decide
To visit the dreaded police
Asking politely if I could
Sit for a driver’s licence please
The copper’s sarcastic reply
Was poison to me ears
“Look here fella
You’re suspended for five years!”
My suspensions as a juvenile
I had truly forgot
And waiting for five years
It seemed I’d probably rot!
So to secure reliable work
I began to drive cars
That my friends is the reason
I’m back behind prison bars
Counting the endless days
For the next coupla years
Missing freedom, friends and family
Shedding lonesome tears
If you young black fellows
Have any kind of sense
Be patient and behave
Get your driver’s licence
Waiting to turn seventeen
Isn’t really very long
And it’s a long lonely journey
Down the road that is wrong
2 Manatj—police Back
3 Wajella—white person Back
Escape!
Spiteful rifle spits
slices through still night
Fragile life flickers
dying beneath searchlight
Faceless, uniformed figure
caresses hot, faithful toy
Warm blood gushes
shattered skull, tender boy.
Institutionalised keepers
blood lusted by the kill
gaze upon the carcass
Overwhelming power thrills!
Nobody mentions
victims a hungry thief
fallen from life’s tree
like browned autumn leaf.
World eternally spinning
nothing breaks this move
Deafening silence returning
prison’s eerie gloom
Bloody razor-wire glistens
beneath silvery moon
Night, quietly mourning
life escaped too soon.
Yigga’s run
Bugger this for a joke coord!4
I’m hitting the toe
Jail’s breaking my heart
and making me low
My yorga’s5 pissed off
with this bunji6 wajella7 bloke
on all this bottled anger
I’m ready to choke
I haven’t had a visit
near on six months now
so I’m gunna chase the moon
and I know exactly how
I’ve got this appeal
due to be heard
it’ll be knocked back
coz the judge is a turd
But if manatj8 give me
a smidgeon of a break
it’ll be a risky chance
I’m prepared to take
I’ll start training tomorrow
or better still tonight
to be fit as a fiddle
and ready to fight
“Yigga to the grill!
get ready for the court!”
Well this is finally it
my brain nervously thought
Shit, shower and shave
then into caged prison van
butterflies fluttering in guts
hoping that I can
take full advantage
of opportunity’s coming my way
remembering the cliche
“all are famous for one day”
Escorted to the cells
in the Supreme Court bowels
dark, dingy and dank
full of smells so foul
Slyly I slipped off tie
sticking it in me pocket
I had this flimsy plan
piss weak but don’t knock it
They called out my name
To get myself prepared
I was bracing my institutionalised brain
beyond the realms of care
They cuffed both my wrists
and led me on out
I gave manatj a glance
both were stocky and stout
Up steep wooden stairs
the manatj escorted me
all thoughts in my head
were only of being free
We sat on a hard wooden bench
outside the courtroom
I was trying to shake off
premonitions of doom
“Do ya’s mind if I smoke?”
I asked one of the police
My frayed, tangled nerves
I hoped nicotine would ease
The manatj answered “No,
but ya better make it quick
I’m certain your name
will be called in a tick”
I said I didn’t care
if my appeal succeeded or not
as in six months time
I’d be free on the trot
“I’ve done three years”
I added with reckless grin
“and another six months
is not original sin
and jail don’t hurt much
if you stay relaxed
at least in prison a man
don’t get his pay taxed!”
Both manatj just smiled
Seemingly more at ease
neither appeared to jerry
that I was on the sleaze
“Do ya’s reckon it’s possible
to take off the cuffs
so I can put on me tie
and look less of a scruff?”
They stared each other
in the eye-balls
one shr
ugged his shoulders
saying “no worries at all”
I put on wrinkled tie
forced smile on face
deep down in my chest
my heart fairly raced
“John Yigga to room one”
the court bailiff called
on hearing these words
poor heart nearly stalled
“Well, here ya go Yigga”
The manatj said to me
“you’ll soon find out
what the appeal judge decrees”
We walked into court
silent as a grave
I was breathing deep and hard
trying to be brave
The court clerk hit his hammer
Shouting “all ye stand!”
Wigged, owl-like judge entered
self-righteous and grand
“So you’re appealing Mr Yigga”
he said down to me
with sarcastic look in his eye
“against sentence severity
Well, I’m real sorry son
I see no solid grounds
and for this fundamental reason
your appeal is stood down”
As they led me away
I thought “here I go”
at last this is it
I’m hitting the toe
One cop had hold of me
by the left arm
his grip was relaxed
and he seemed to be calm
The other copper walked
a few feet ahead
suddenly I broke the grasp
and for freedom I fled
They pursued my elusive body
straight out the front door
shouting “Stop you crazy bastard
in the name of the law!”
Into the court carpark
bending low I flew
trying to think clearly
of what I must do
A half dozen angry manatj
fell in on my trail
but my stamina was ready
through exercise in jail
“Stop that dangerous man!”
the manatj yelled out
to the curious citizens
frozen by their shout
But I was through the park
and entering the street
Two exhausted coppers gave in
I had now four to beat
“Go like the wind bro!”
