I have submitted new novel "Benevolence" to Magabala Press. October 2016......

NEWS.....


I have received an award for poetry. The Oodgeroo Noonuccal Indigenous Poetry prize. Co winner in 2016 from the Queensland Poetry Festival. Check out poem in online poetry magazine "Overland".



DURIA BURUMURRING - EAGLEHAWK TIME

By Julie Janson

 

Their ghost blue eyes glowing with bright light.

 

Her father sings his country walking through Blue Mountains.

He sings great serpent’s swimming, swimming to make rivers.

He sings each place calling, calling out to spirits.

Friends passing, needing permission, moving across lands.

His singing marks secret places, treading softly on quoll cat head rock.

Singing by rock shelters, pressing ochre palms.

Pushing red hands, at Lilly Pilly Creek. Little hand prints, men’s hand prints, marking    

their passing.

 

Late night, she listens to her father.

She won’t understand, must not be afraid.

She wriggles in possum cloak, listens, listens.

           Waiballa have taken much land.

Anger bringing down grief. Love flies.

Hand runs across woomera, slapping against thigh.

She must help her people, learning waiballa language, their ways.

She must be brave.

Remembering he loves her, he will come back.

Now panic rising, crying, crying, holding his hand tight.

He removes her hand, continues.

She should trust him.

She is alarmed, clear this night is goodbye.

Her aunt mothers look, lying near a fire, crying.

           

 

 

This child Mary Burrarone, is not afraid in killing times.

Her father finds her, lying in soft valley grasses.

Picking her up in great dark arms. A funeral of a burning man.

All confusion, smoke, hawks swooping, to eat burnt things.

Yunga, kudjal. Weapons thrown on pyre.

Cloth turns to feathers, floating, floating on hot smoke.

Singing and wailing sadness, burria burria.

Women cutting heads, stones and blood trickling.

Objects float in blue sky, birds fight.

Duria burumurring, eaglehawk time.

 

   Magpies, currawongs call across morning sky.

  Sun’s heat streams down.

  Clan gather belongings, dilly bags, coolamons.

  Walking, walking to a new town.

  Old women stamp out fire, gathering babies in arms.

  Hiding seed damper in dilly bags.

She is eager to see waiballa, taste beef. 

Walking all day. Holding her father’s head.

Legs balancing on shoulders, hands gripping forehead,

pressing against black curls.

They stop, her father offers up sugar bag wild honey. Sucking.

Long hot walk, asking, where they are going?

High up on father’s head, he can’t hear her.

Hoping for food, hoping. Very thirsty, no water.

Chewing, chewing, she chews wattle gum.

 

 

 

Arriving in this new town, carriages, bullock wagons churning mud.

Leaving marks, like snake tracks.

Horses everywhere, yarrowman, terrifying size unbearable.

Hooves sharp, trampling earth.

Horses whinnying, voice of monsters.

All confused, wooden platform on high church tower.

Soldiers standing in formation, rifles at ease.

Black coated men, women in long shining dresses. White parasols.

A town dressed with roses, blooming, blooming behind picket fences.

Musicians playing, drummer boys rapping drums.

Thrumming in Mary’s head.

 She sees tiny white dog, ruffled collar, licking his master’s fingers.

Watching dog, longing to touch it.

Smiling, putting out pink tongue.

She pulls her father’s arm, wants to hold this magical thing.

 

 

             Waiballa has feelings of benevolence towards native people.

This word ‘gift’ can’t be correct, is she passed into another man’s hands?

Mary confused, screaming, her father serious: she can’t move, can’t speak.

Father’s hands on woomerah, leaning forward, listening.

 

Intent on agreement.

 

 

 

No one will harm her, he loves her.

 

Tribal law protects children, she was not chattel. Chattel.

 

A captain in red wool looking, talking slowly, as if her father is stupid.

 

English words sound like rattling sticks.

 

 

 

She saw that look on father’s face before, a gift bag of flour, the first time.

 

Joking, had they given him white dust or ochre paint?

 

Miming, spitting, he slowly touched white powder, tasting.

 

No good, he said, threw it, bag bursting like a cloud.

 

They all laughed. A tribe kept eyes on him, seeing what to do.

 

These ghost men had fire sticks that killed.

 

Wondering how to behave, father, their star and moon.

 

Soldiers laughing at him, laughing, sudden humiliation.

 

When people, point, laugh, you are the reason for laughter, it burnt you.

 

Soldier picking up flour bag, licking and smirking.

 

 

 

Damper bread given from saddle bag.

 

Except her father: tree standing tall, turning his back, mob walking away.

 

Proud.

 

Not needing white dust from dead people.

 

Only later: begging, begging for one scoop of waiballa flour.

 

 

 

Now, Mary here, nearly naked, naked and shy,

 

Pulling shift over her head.

 

Knowing ghost men like nothing more than this, this moment of taking, taking

 

something. Something.

 

Bringing shame to them all.

 

Their ghost blue eyes glowing with bright light. DURIA BURUMURRING - EAGLEHAWK TIME

By Julie Janson

 

Their ghost blue eyes glowing with bright light.

 

Her father sings his country walking through Blue Mountains.

He sings great serpent’s swimming, swimming to make rivers.

He sings each place calling, calling out to spirits.

Friends passing, needing permission, moving across lands.

His singing marks secret places, treading softly on quoll cat head rock.

Singing by rock shelters, pressing ochre palms.

Pushing red hands, at Lilly Pilly Creek. Little hand prints, men’s hand prints, marking    

their passing.

 

Late night, she listens to her father.

She won’t understand, must not be afraid.

She wriggles in possum cloak, listens, listens.

           Waiballa have taken much land.

Anger bringing down grief. Love flies.

Hand runs across woomera, slapping against thigh.

She must help her people, learning waiballa language, their ways.

She must be brave.

Remembering he loves her, he will come back.

Now panic rising, crying, crying, holding his hand tight.

He removes her hand, continues.

She should trust him.

She is alarmed, clear this night is goodbye.

Her aunt mothers look, lying near a fire, crying.

           

 

 

This child Mary Burrarone, is not afraid in killing times.

Her father finds her, lying in soft valley grasses.

Picking her up in great dark arms. A funeral of a burning man.

All confusion, smoke, hawks swooping, to eat burnt things.

Yunga, kudjal. Weapons thrown on pyre.

Cloth turns to feathers, floating, floating on hot smoke.

Singing and wailing sadness, burria burria.

Women cutting heads, stones and blood trickling.

Objects float in blue sky, birds fight.

Duria burumurring, eaglehawk time.

 

   Magpies, currawongs call across morning sky.

  Sun’s heat streams down.

  Clan gather belongings, dilly bags, coolamons.

  Walking, walking to a new town.

  Old women stamp out fire, gathering babies in arms.

  Hiding seed damper in dilly bags.

She is eager to see waiballa, taste beef. 

Walking all day. Holding her father’s head.

Legs balancing on shoulders, hands gripping forehead,

pressing against black curls.

They stop, her father offers up sugar bag wild honey. Sucking.

Long hot walk, asking, where they are going?

High up on father’s head, he can’t hear her.

Hoping for food, hoping. Very thirsty, no water.

Chewing, chewing, she chews wattle gum.

 

 

 

Arriving in this new town, carriages, bullock wagons churning mud.

Leaving marks, like snake tracks.

Horses everywhere, yarrowman, terrifying size unbearable.

Hooves sharp, trampling earth.

Horses whinnying, voice of monsters.

All confused, wooden platform on high church tower.

Soldiers standing in formation, rifles at ease.

Black coated men, women in long shining dresses. White parasols.

A town dressed with roses, blooming, blooming behind picket fences.

Musicians playing, drummer boys rapping drums.

Thrumming in Mary’s head.

 She sees tiny white dog, ruffled collar, licking his master’s fingers.

Watching dog, longing to touch it.

Smiling, putting out pink tongue.

She pulls her father’s arm, wants to hold this magical thing.

 

 

             Waiballa has feelings of benevolence towards native people.

This word ‘gift’ can’t be correct, is she passed into another man’s hands?

Mary confused, screaming, her father serious: she can’t move, can’t speak.

Father’s hands on woomerah, leaning forward, listening.

 

Intent on agreement.

 

 

 

No one will harm her, he loves her.

 

Tribal law protects children, she was not chattel. Chattel.

 

A captain in red wool looking, talking slowly, as if her father is stupid.

 

English words sound like rattling sticks.

 

 

 

She saw that look on father’s face before, a gift bag of flour, the first time.

 

Joking, had they given him white dust or ochre paint?

 

Miming, spitting, he slowly touched white powder, tasting.

 

No good, he said, threw it, bag bursting like a cloud.

 

They all laughed. A tribe kept eyes on him, seeing what to do.

 

These ghost men had fire sticks that killed.

 

Wondering how to behave, father, their star and moon.

 

Soldiers laughing at him, laughing, sudden humiliation.

 

When people, point, laugh, you are the reason for laughter, it burnt you.

 

Soldier picking up flour bag, licking and smirking.

 

 

 

Damper bread given from saddle bag.

 

Except her father: tree standing tall, turning his back, mob walking away.

 

Proud.

 

Not needing white dust from dead people.

 

Only later: begging, begging for one scoop of waiballa flour.

 

 

 

Now, Mary here, nearly naked, naked and shy,

 

Pulling shift over her head.

 

Knowing ghost men like nothing more than this, this moment of taking, taking

 

something. Something.

 

Bringing shame to them all.

 

Their ghost blue eyes glowing with bright light.DURIA BURUMURRING - EAGLEHAWK TIME

By Julie Janson

 

Their ghost blue eyes glowing with bright light.

 

Her father sings his country walking through Blue Mountains.

He sings great serpent’s swimming, swimming to make rivers.

He sings each place calling, calling out to spirits.

Friends passing, needing permission, moving across lands.

His singing marks secret places, treading softly on quoll cat head rock.

Singing by rock shelters, pressing ochre palms.

Pushing red hands, at Lilly Pilly Creek. Little hand prints, men’s hand prints, marking    

their passing.

 

Late night, she listens to her father.

She won’t understand, must not be afraid.

She wriggles in possum cloak, listens, listens.

           Waiballa have taken much land.

Anger bringing down grief. Love flies.

Hand runs across woomera, slapping against thigh.

She must help her people, learning waiballa language, their ways.

She must be brave.

Remembering he loves her, he will come back.

Now panic rising, crying, crying, holding his hand tight.

He removes her hand, continues.

She should trust him.

She is alarmed, clear this night is goodbye.

Her aunt mothers look, lying near a fire, crying.

           

 

 

This child Mary Burrarone, is not afraid in killing times.

Her father finds her, lying in soft valley grasses.

Picking her up in great dark arms. A funeral of a burning man.

All confusion, smoke, hawks swooping, to eat burnt things.

Yunga, kudjal. Weapons thrown on pyre.

Cloth turns to feathers, floating, floating on hot smoke.

Singing and wailing sadness, burria burria.

Women cutting heads, stones and blood trickling.

Objects float in blue sky, birds fight.

Duria burumurring, eaglehawk time.

 

   Magpies, currawongs call across morning sky.

  Sun’s heat streams down.

  Clan gather belongings, dilly bags, coolamons.

  Walking, walking to a new town.

  Old women stamp out fire, gathering babies in arms.

  Hiding seed damper in dilly bags.

She is eager to see waiballa, taste beef. 

Walking all day. Holding her father’s head.

Legs balancing on shoulders, hands gripping forehead,

pressing against black curls.

They stop, her father offers up sugar bag wild honey. Sucking.

Long hot walk, asking, where they are going?

High up on father’s head, he can’t hear her.

Hoping for food, hoping. Very thirsty, no water.

Chewing, chewing, she chews wattle gum.

 

 

 

Arriving in this new town, carriages, bullock wagons churning mud.

Leaving marks, like snake tracks.

Horses everywhere, yarrowman, terrifying size unbearable.

Hooves sharp, trampling earth.

Horses whinnying, voice of monsters.

All confused, wooden platform on high church tower.

Soldiers standing in formation, rifles at ease.

Black coated men, women in long shining dresses. White parasols.

A town dressed with roses, blooming, blooming behind picket fences.

Musicians playing, drummer boys rapping drums.

Thrumming in Mary’s head.

 She sees tiny white dog, ruffled collar, licking his master’s fingers.

Watching dog, longing to touch it.

Smiling, putting out pink tongue.

She pulls her father’s arm, wants to hold this magical thing.

 

 

             Waiballa has feelings of benevolence towards native people.

This word ‘gift’ can’t be correct, is she passed into another man’s hands?

Mary confused, screaming, her father serious: she can’t move, can’t speak.

Father’s hands on woomerah, leaning forward, listening.

 

Intent on agreement.

 

 

 

No one will harm her, he loves her.

 

Tribal law protects children, she was not chattel. Chattel.

 

A captain in red wool looking, talking slowly, as if her father is stupid.

 

English words sound like rattling sticks.

 

 

 

She saw that look on father’s face before, a gift bag of flour, the first time.

 

Joking, had they given him white dust or ochre paint?

 

Miming, spitting, he slowly touched white powder, tasting.

 

No good, he said, threw it, bag bursting like a cloud.

 

They all laughed. A tribe kept eyes on him, seeing what to do.

 

These ghost men had fire sticks that killed.

 

Wondering how to behave, father, their star and moon.

 

Soldiers laughing at him, laughing, sudden humiliation.

 

When people, point, laugh, you are the reason for laughter, it burnt you.

 

Soldier picking up flour bag, licking and smirking.

 

 

 

Damper bread given from saddle bag.

 

Except her father: tree standing tall, turning his back, mob walking away.

 

Proud.

 

Not needing white dust from dead people.

 

Only later: begging, begging for one scoop of waiballa flour.

 

 

 

Now, Mary here, nearly naked, naked and shy,

 

Pulling shift over her head.

 

Knowing ghost men like nothing more than this, this moment of taking, taking

 

something. Something.

 

Bringing shame to them all.

 

Their ghost blue eyes glowing with bright light.DURIA BURUMURRING - EAGLEHAWK TIME

By Julie Janson

 

Their ghost blue eyes glowing with bright light.

 

Her father sings his country walking through Blue Mountains.

He sings great serpent’s swimming, swimming to make rivers.

He sings each place calling, calling out to spirits.

Friends passing, needing permission, moving across lands.

His singing marks secret places, treading softly on quoll cat head rock.

Singing by rock shelters, pressing ochre palms.

Pushing red hands, at Lilly Pilly Creek. Little hand prints, men’s hand prints, marking    

their passing.

 

Late night, she listens to her father.

She won’t understand, must not be afraid.

She wriggles in possum cloak, listens, listens.

           Waiballa have taken much land.

Anger bringing down grief. Love flies.

Hand runs across woomera, slapping against thigh.

She must help her people, learning waiballa language, their ways.

She must be brave.

Remembering he loves her, he will come back.

Now panic rising, crying, crying, holding his hand tight.

He removes her hand, continues.

She should trust him.

She is alarmed, clear this night is goodbye.

Her aunt mothers look, lying near a fire, crying.

           

 

 

This child Mary Burrarone, is not afraid in killing times.

Her father finds her, lying in soft valley grasses.

Picking her up in great dark arms. A funeral of a burning man.

All confusion, smoke, hawks swooping, to eat burnt things.

Yunga, kudjal. Weapons thrown on pyre.

Cloth turns to feathers, floating, floating on hot smoke.

Singing and wailing sadness, burria burria.

Women cutting heads, stones and blood trickling.

Objects float in blue sky, birds fight.

Duria burumurring, eaglehawk time.

 

   Magpies, currawongs call across morning sky.

  Sun’s heat streams down.

  Clan gather belongings, dilly bags, coolamons.

  Walking, walking to a new town.

  Old women stamp out fire, gathering babies in arms.

  Hiding seed damper in dilly bags.

She is eager to see waiballa, taste beef. 

Walking all day. Holding her father’s head.

Legs balancing on shoulders, hands gripping forehead,

pressing against black curls.

They stop, her father offers up sugar bag wild honey. Sucking.

Long hot walk, asking, where they are going?

High up on father’s head, he can’t hear her.

Hoping for food, hoping. Very thirsty, no water.

Chewing, chewing, she chews wattle gum.

 

 

 

Arriving in this new town, carriages, bullock wagons churning mud.

Leaving marks, like snake tracks.

Horses everywhere, yarrowman, terrifying size unbearable.

Hooves sharp, trampling earth.

Horses whinnying, voice of monsters.

All confused, wooden platform on high church tower.

Soldiers standing in formation, rifles at ease.

Black coated men, women in long shining dresses. White parasols.

A town dressed with roses, blooming, blooming behind picket fences.

Musicians playing, drummer boys rapping drums.

Thrumming in Mary’s head.

 She sees tiny white dog, ruffled collar, licking his master’s fingers.

Watching dog, longing to touch it.

Smiling, putting out pink tongue.

She pulls her father’s arm, wants to hold this magical thing.

 

 

             Waiballa has feelings of benevolence towards native people.

This word ‘gift’ can’t be correct, is she passed into another man’s hands?

Mary confused, screaming, her father serious: she can’t move, can’t speak.

Father’s hands on woomerah, leaning forward, listening.

 

Intent on agreement.

 

 

 

No one will harm her, he loves her.

 

Tribal law protects children, she was not chattel. Chattel.

 

A captain in red wool looking, talking slowly, as if her father is stupid.

 

English words sound like rattling sticks.

 

 

 

She saw that look on father’s face before, a gift bag of flour, the first time.

 

Joking, had they given him white dust or ochre paint?

 

Miming, spitting, he slowly touched white powder, tasting.

 

No good, he said, threw it, bag bursting like a cloud.

 

They all laughed. A tribe kept eyes on him, seeing what to do.

 

These ghost men had fire sticks that killed.

 

Wondering how to behave, father, their star and moon.

 

Soldiers laughing at him, laughing, sudden humiliation.

 

When people, point, laugh, you are the reason for laughter, it burnt you.

 

Soldier picking up flour bag, licking and smirking.

 

 

 

Damper bread given from saddle bag.

 

Except her father: tree standing tall, turning his back, mob walking away.

 

Proud.

 

Not needing white dust from dead people.

 

Only later: begging, begging for one scoop of waiballa flour.

 

 

 

Now, Mary here, nearly naked, naked and shy,

 

Pulling shift over her head.

 

Knowing ghost men like nothing more than this, this moment of taking, taking

 

something. Something.

 

Bringing shame to them all.

 

Their ghost blue eyes glowing with bright light.DURIA BURUMURRING - EAGLEHAWK TIME

By Julie Janson

 

Their ghost blue eyes glowing with bright light.

 

Her father sings his country walking through Blue Mountains.

He sings great serpent’s swimming, swimming to make rivers.

He sings each place calling, calling out to spirits.

Friends passing, needing permission, moving across lands.

His singing marks secret places, treading softly on quoll cat head rock.

Singing by rock shelters, pressing ochre palms.

Pushing red hands, at Lilly Pilly Creek. Little hand prints, men’s hand prints, marking    

their passing.

 

Late night, she listens to her father.

She won’t understand, must not be afraid.

She wriggles in possum cloak, listens, listens.

           Waiballa have taken much land.

Anger bringing down grief. Love flies.

Hand runs across woomera, slapping against thigh.

She must help her people, learning waiballa language, their ways.

She must be brave.

Remembering he loves her, he will come back.

Now panic rising, crying, crying, holding his hand tight.

He removes her hand, continues.

She should trust him.

She is alarmed, clear this night is goodbye.

Her aunt mothers look, lying near a fire, crying.

           

 

 

This child Mary Burrarone, is not afraid in killing times.

Her father finds her, lying in soft valley grasses.

Picking her up in great dark arms. A funeral of a burning man.

All confusion, smoke, hawks swooping, to eat burnt things.

Yunga, kudjal. Weapons thrown on pyre.

Cloth turns to feathers, floating, floating on hot smoke.

Singing and wailing sadness, burria burria.

Women cutting heads, stones and blood trickling.

Objects float in blue sky, birds fight.

Duria burumurring, eaglehawk time.

 

   Magpies, currawongs call across morning sky.

  Sun’s heat streams down.

  Clan gather belongings, dilly bags, coolamons.

  Walking, walking to a new town.

  Old women stamp out fire, gathering babies in arms.

  Hiding seed damper in dilly bags.

She is eager to see waiballa, taste beef. 

Walking all day. Holding her father’s head.

Legs balancing on shoulders, hands gripping forehead,

pressing against black curls.

They stop, her father offers up sugar bag wild honey. Sucking.

Long hot walk, asking, where they are going?

High up on father’s head, he can’t hear her.

Hoping for food, hoping. Very thirsty, no water.

Chewing, chewing, she chews wattle gum.

 

 

 

Arriving in this new town, carriages, bullock wagons churning mud.

Leaving marks, like snake tracks.

Horses everywhere, yarrowman, terrifying size unbearable.

Hooves sharp, trampling earth.

Horses whinnying, voice of monsters.

All confused, wooden platform on high church tower.

Soldiers standing in formation, rifles at ease.

Black coated men, women in long shining dresses. White parasols.

A town dressed with roses, blooming, blooming behind picket fences.

Musicians playing, drummer boys rapping drums.

Thrumming in Mary’s head.

 She sees tiny white dog, ruffled collar, licking his master’s fingers.

Watching dog, longing to touch it.

Smiling, putting out pink tongue.

She pulls her father’s arm, wants to hold this magical thing.

 

 

             Waiballa has feelings of benevolence towards native people.

This word ‘gift’ can’t be correct, is she passed into another man’s hands?

Mary confused, screaming, her father serious: she can’t move, can’t speak.

Father’s hands on woomerah, leaning forward, listening.

 

Intent on agreement.

 

 

 

No one will harm her, he loves her.

 

Tribal law protects children, she was not chattel. Chattel.

 

A captain in red wool looking, talking slowly, as if her father is stupid.

 

English words sound like rattling sticks.

 

 

 

She saw that look on father’s face before, a gift bag of flour, the first time.

 

Joking, had they given him white dust or ochre paint?

 

Miming, spitting, he slowly touched white powder, tasting.

 

No good, he said, threw it, bag bursting like a cloud.

 

They all laughed. A tribe kept eyes on him, seeing what to do.

 

These ghost men had fire sticks that killed.

 

Wondering how to behave, father, their star and moon.

 

Soldiers laughing at him, laughing, sudden humiliation.

 

When people, point, laugh, you are the reason for laughter, it burnt you.

 

Soldier picking up flour bag, licking and smirking.

 

 

 

Damper bread given from saddle bag.

 

Except her father: tree standing tall, turning his back, mob walking away.

 

Proud.

 

Not needing white dust from dead people.

 

Only later: begging, begging for one scoop of waiballa flour.

 

 

 

Now, Mary here, nearly naked, naked and shy,

 

Pulling shift over her head.

 

Knowing ghost men like nothing more than this, this moment of taking, taking

 

something. Something.

 

Bringing shame to them all.

 

Their ghost blue eyes glowing with bright light.DURIA BURUMURRING - EAGLEHAWK TIME

By Julie Janson

 

Their ghost blue eyes glowing with bright light.

 

Her father sings his country walking through Blue Mountains.

He sings great serpent’s swimming, swimming to make rivers.

He sings each place calling, calling out to spirits.

Friends passing, needing permission, moving across lands.

His singing marks secret places, treading softly on quoll cat head rock.

Singing by rock shelters, pressing ochre palms.

Pushing red hands, at Lilly Pilly Creek. Little hand prints, men’s hand prints, marking    

their passing.

 

Late night, she listens to her father.

She won’t understand, must not be afraid.

She wriggles in possum cloak, listens, listens.

           Waiballa have taken much land.

Anger bringing down grief. Love flies.

Hand runs across woomera, slapping against thigh.

She must help her people, learning waiballa language, their ways.

She must be brave.

Remembering he loves her, he will come back.

Now panic rising, crying, crying, holding his hand tight.

He removes her hand, continues.

She should trust him.

She is alarmed, clear this night is goodbye.

Her aunt mothers look, lying near a fire, crying.

           

 

 

This child Mary Burrarone, is not afraid in killing times.

Her father finds her, lying in soft valley grasses.

Picking her up in great dark arms. A funeral of a burning man.

All confusion, smoke, hawks swooping, to eat burnt things.

Yunga, kudjal. Weapons thrown on pyre.

Cloth turns to feathers, floating, floating on hot smoke.

Singing and wailing sadness, burria burria.

Women cutting heads, stones and blood trickling.

Objects float in blue sky, birds fight.

Duria burumurring, eaglehawk time.

 

   Magpies, currawongs call across morning sky.

  Sun’s heat streams down.

  Clan gather belongings, dilly bags, coolamons.

  Walking, walking to a new town.

  Old women stamp out fire, gathering babies in arms.

  Hiding seed damper in dilly bags.

She is eager to see waiballa, taste beef. 

Walking all day. Holding her father’s head.

Legs balancing on shoulders, hands gripping forehead,

pressing against black curls.

They stop, her father offers up sugar bag wild honey. Sucking.

Long hot walk, asking, where they are going?

High up on father’s head, he can’t hear her.

Hoping for food, hoping. Very thirsty, no water.

Chewing, chewing, she chews wattle gum.

 

 

 

Arriving in this new town, carriages, bullock wagons churning mud.

Leaving marks, like snake tracks.

Horses everywhere, yarrowman, terrifying size unbearable.

Hooves sharp, trampling earth.

Horses whinnying, voice of monsters.

All confused, wooden platform on high church tower.

Soldiers standing in formation, rifles at ease.

Black coated men, women in long shining dresses. White parasols.

A town dressed with roses, blooming, blooming behind picket fences.

Musicians playing, drummer boys rapping drums.

Thrumming in Mary’s head.

 She sees tiny white dog, ruffled collar, licking his master’s fingers.

Watching dog, longing to touch it.

Smiling, putting out pink tongue.

She pulls her father’s arm, wants to hold this magical thing.

 

 

             Waiballa has feelings of benevolence towards native people.

This word ‘gift’ can’t be correct, is she passed into another man’s hands?

Mary confused, screaming, her father serious: she can’t move, can’t speak.

Father’s hands on woomerah, leaning forward, listening.

 

Intent on agreement.

 

 

 

No one will harm her, he loves her.

 

Tribal law protects children, she was not chattel. Chattel.

 

A captain in red wool looking, talking slowly, as if her father is stupid.

 

English words sound like rattling sticks.

 

 

 

She saw that look on father’s face before, a gift bag of flour, the first time.

 

Joking, had they given him white dust or ochre paint?

 

Miming, spitting, he slowly touched white powder, tasting.

 

No good, he said, threw it, bag bursting like a cloud.

 

They all laughed. A tribe kept eyes on him, seeing what to do.

 

These ghost men had fire sticks that killed.

 

Wondering how to behave, father, their star and moon.

 

Soldiers laughing at him, laughing, sudden humiliation.

 

When people, point, laugh, you are the reason for laughter, it burnt you.

 

Soldier picking up flour bag, licking and smirking.

 

 

 

Damper bread given from saddle bag.

 

Except her father: tree standing tall, turning his back, mob walking away.

 

Proud.

 

Not needing white dust from dead people.

 

Only later: begging, begging for one scoop of waiballa flour.

 

 

 

Now, Mary here, nearly naked, naked and shy,

 

Pulling shift over her head.

 

Knowing ghost men like nothing more than this, this moment of taking, taking

 

something. Something.

 

Bringing shame to them all.

 

Their ghost blue eyes glowing with bright light.DURIA BURUMURRING - EAGLEHAWK TIME

By Julie Janson

 

Their ghost blue eyes glowing with bright light.

 

Her father sings his country walking through Blue Mountains.

He sings great serpent’s swimming, swimming to make rivers.

He sings each place calling, calling out to spirits.

Friends passing, needing permission, moving across lands.

His singing marks secret places, treading softly on quoll cat head rock.

Singing by rock shelters, pressing ochre palms.

Pushing red hands, at Lilly Pilly Creek. Little hand prints, men’s hand prints, marking    

their passing.

 

Late night, she listens to her father.

She won’t understand, must not be afraid.

She wriggles in possum cloak, listens, listens.

           Waiballa have taken much land.

Anger bringing down grief. Love flies.

Hand runs across woomera, slapping against thigh.

She must help her people, learning waiballa language, their ways.

She must be brave.

Remembering he loves her, he will come back.

Now panic rising, crying, crying, holding his hand tight.

He removes her hand, continues.

She should trust him.

She is alarmed, clear this night is goodbye.

Her aunt mothers look, lying near a fire, crying.

           

 

 

This child Mary Burrarone, is not afraid in killing times.

Her father finds her, lying in soft valley grasses.

Picking her up in great dark arms. A funeral of a burning man.

All confusion, smoke, hawks swooping, to eat burnt things.

Yunga, kudjal. Weapons thrown on pyre.

Cloth turns to feathers, floating, floating on hot smoke.

Singing and wailing sadness, burria burria.

Women cutting heads, stones and blood trickling.

Objects float in blue sky, birds fight.

Duria burumurring, eaglehawk time.

 

   Magpies, currawongs call across morning sky.

  Sun’s heat streams down.

  Clan gather belongings, dilly bags, coolamons.

  Walking, walking to a new town.

  Old women stamp out fire, gathering babies in arms.

  Hiding seed damper in dilly bags.

She is eager to see waiballa, taste beef. 

Walking all day. Holding her father’s head.

Legs balancing on shoulders, hands gripping forehead,

pressing against black curls.

They stop, her father offers up sugar bag wild honey. Sucking.

Long hot walk, asking, where they are going?

High up on father’s head, he can’t hear her.

Hoping for food, hoping. Very thirsty, no water.

Chewing, chewing, she chews wattle gum.

 

 

 

Arriving in this new town, carriages, bullock wagons churning mud.

Leaving marks, like snake tracks.

Horses everywhere, yarrowman, terrifying size unbearable.

Hooves sharp, trampling earth.

Horses whinnying, voice of monsters.

All confused, wooden platform on high church tower.

Soldiers standing in formation, rifles at ease.

Black coated men, women in long shining dresses. White parasols.

A town dressed with roses, blooming, blooming behind picket fences.

Musicians playing, drummer boys rapping drums.

Thrumming in Mary’s head.

 She sees tiny white dog, ruffled collar, licking his master’s fingers.

Watching dog, longing to touch it.

Smiling, putting out pink tongue.

She pulls her father’s arm, wants to hold this magical thing.

 

 

             Waiballa has feelings of benevolence towards native people.

This word ‘gift’ can’t be correct, is she passed into another man’s hands?

Mary confused, screaming, her father serious: she can’t move, can’t speak.

Father’s hands on woomerah, leaning forward, listening.

 

Intent on agreement.

 

 

 

No one will harm her, he loves her.

 

Tribal law protects children, she was not chattel. Chattel.

 

A captain in red wool looking, talking slowly, as if her father is stupid.

 

English words sound like rattling sticks.

 

 

 

She saw that look on father’s face before, a gift bag of flour, the first time.

 

Joking, had they given him white dust or ochre paint?

 

Miming, spitting, he slowly touched white powder, tasting.

 

No good, he said, threw it, bag bursting like a cloud.

 

They all laughed. A tribe kept eyes on him, seeing what to do.

 

These ghost men had fire sticks that killed.

 

Wondering how to behave, father, their star and moon.

 

Soldiers laughing at him, laughing, sudden humiliation.

 

When people, point, laugh, you are the reason for laughter, it burnt you.

 

Soldier picking up flour bag, licking and smirking.

 

 

 

Damper bread given from saddle bag.

 

Except her father: tree standing tall, turning his back, mob walking away.

 

Proud.

 

Not needing white dust from dead people.

 

Only later: begging, begging for one scoop of waiballa flour.

 

 

 

Now, Mary here, nearly naked, naked and shy,

 

Pulling shift over her head.

 

Knowing ghost men like nothing more than this, this moment of taking, taking

 

something. Something.

 

Bringing shame to them all.

 

Their ghost blue eyes glowing with bright light.DURIA BURUMURRING - EAGLEHAWK TIME

By Julie Janson

 

Their ghost blue eyes glowing with bright light.

 

Her father sings his country walking through Blue Mountains.

He sings great serpent’s swimming, swimming to make rivers.

He sings each place calling, calling out to spirits.

Friends passing, needing permission, moving across lands.

His singing marks secret places, treading softly on quoll cat head rock.

Singing by rock shelters, pressing ochre palms.

Pushing red hands, at Lilly Pilly Creek. Little hand prints, men’s hand prints, marking    

their passing.

 

Late night, she listens to her father.

She won’t understand, must not be afraid.

She wriggles in possum cloak, listens, listens.

           Waiballa have taken much land.

Anger bringing down grief. Love flies.

Hand runs across woomera, slapping against thigh.

She must help her people, learning waiballa language, their ways.

She must be brave.

Remembering he loves her, he will come back.

Now panic rising, crying, crying, holding his hand tight.

He removes her hand, continues.

She should trust him.

She is alarmed, clear this night is goodbye.

Her aunt mothers look, lying near a fire, crying.

           

 

 

This child Mary Burrarone, is not afraid in killing times.

Her father finds her, lying in soft valley grasses.

Picking her up in great dark arms. A funeral of a burning man.

All confusion, smoke, hawks swooping, to eat burnt things.

Yunga, kudjal. Weapons thrown on pyre.

Cloth turns to feathers, floating, floating on hot smoke.

Singing and wailing sadness, burria burria.

Women cutting heads, stones and blood trickling.

Objects float in blue sky, birds fight.

Duria burumurring, eaglehawk time.

 

   Magpies, currawongs call across morning sky.

  Sun’s heat streams down.

  Clan gather belongings, dilly bags, coolamons.

  Walking, walking to a new town.

  Old women stamp out fire, gathering babies in arms.

  Hiding seed damper in dilly bags.

She is eager to see waiballa, taste beef. 

Walking all day. Holding her father’s head.

Legs balancing on shoulders, hands gripping forehead,

pressing against black curls.

They stop, her father offers up sugar bag wild honey. Sucking.

Long hot walk, asking, where they are going?

High up on father’s head, he can’t hear her.

Hoping for food, hoping. Very thirsty, no water.

Chewing, chewing, she chews wattle gum.

 

 

 

Arriving in this new town, carriages, bullock wagons churning mud.

Leaving marks, like snake tracks.

Horses everywhere, yarrowman, terrifying size unbearable.

Hooves sharp, trampling earth.

Horses whinnying, voice of monsters.

All confused, wooden platform on high church tower.

Soldiers standing in formation, rifles at ease.

Black coated men, women in long shining dresses. White parasols.

A town dressed with roses, blooming, blooming behind picket fences.

Musicians playing, drummer boys rapping drums.

Thrumming in Mary’s head.

 She sees tiny white dog, ruffled collar, licking his master’s fingers.

Watching dog, longing to touch it.

Smiling, putting out pink tongue.

She pulls her father’s arm, wants to hold this magical thing.

 

 

             Waiballa has feelings of benevolence towards native people.

This word ‘gift’ can’t be correct, is she passed into another man’s hands?

Mary confused, screaming, her father serious: she can’t move, can’t speak.

Father’s hands on woomerah, leaning forward, listening.

 

Intent on agreement.

 

 

 

No one will harm her, he loves her.

 

Tribal law protects children, she was not chattel. Chattel.

 

A captain in red wool looking, talking slowly, as if her father is stupid.

 

English words sound like rattling sticks.

 

 

 

She saw that look on father’s face before, a gift bag of flour, the first time.

 

Joking, had they given him white dust or ochre paint?

 

Miming, spitting, he slowly touched white powder, tasting.

 

No good, he said, threw it, bag bursting like a cloud.

 

They all laughed. A tribe kept eyes on him, seeing what to do.

 

These ghost men had fire sticks that killed.

 

Wondering how to behave, father, their star and moon.

 

Soldiers laughing at him, laughing, sudden humiliation.

 

When people, point, laugh, you are the reason for laughter, it burnt you.

 

Soldier picking up flour bag, licking and smirking.

 

 

 

Damper bread given from saddle bag.

 

Except her father: tree standing tall, turning his back, mob walking away.

 

Proud.

 

Not needing white dust from dead people.

 

Only later: begging, begging for one scoop of waiballa flour.

 

 

 

Now, Mary here, nearly naked, naked and shy,

 

Pulling shift over her head.

 

Knowing ghost men like nothing more than this, this moment of taking, taking

 

something. Something.

 

Bringing shame to them all.

 

Their ghost blue eyes glowing with bright light.

The novel THE CROCODILE HOTEL is now available as an e book for Kindle etc. Buy it for $8.95 on Amazon.

 

Cover of THE CROCODILE HOTEL published by Cyclops Press.

Julie Janson is writing a new novel "Benevolence" about the Darug Aboriginal people of the Hawkesbury River NSW Australia. It is an answer to "The Secret River" which tells a story  of colonisation from an English settler point of view.


Julie's first novel "The Crocodile Hotel" was published by Cyclops Press and is available online at  Booktopia and Angus and Robertsons.  


 There was a wonderful book launch at Berkelouw Books Shop in Mona Vale, the Aboriginal dance group Jannawi Dance Clan performed to great acclaim.



Picture of Justine Saunders and Julie Janson at the Adelaide Festival of the Arts.

Biography: Julie Janson Established playwright and first time novelist. Graduate of the University of NSW, MA, BA, Dip Education, University of Sydney B Visual Arts. 
I have written my debut novel "THE CROCODILE HOTEL" available from www.cyclopspress.com.au march 2015
I have written ten plays about Aboriginal Australia and Indonesia. Some are: “Black Mary” produced by Belvoir St Theatre Company B with SOCOG for the Olympic Festival of the Dreaming 1997 and Phoenix Theatre Arizona USA 1998; “Gunjies” produced at Belvoir St Theatre; “Lotus War” and the erotica play “Season to Taste” Belvoir St Theatre Downstairs, ABC Radio National and Adelaide Fringe Festival; “Eyes of Marege” 2007, Sydney Opera House Studio, a collaboration with Theatre Kita Makassar, Indonesia. Awards and residencies: Literature Board BR Whiting Studio Rome, Australia Council 2013; Two Asialink Literature Residencies in Indonesia, 2001 and 2007. Australia Council Literature Board-Tyrone Guthrie Irish writers Centre Residency 2005.  Developing Writer’s Fellowship, Literature Board, Australia Council. Two plays “Gunjies and Black Mary” published by Aboriginal Studies Press 1996. The play “Gunjies” received Highly Commended Human Rights Award. The play “The Crocodile Hotel” shortlisted for the Griffin Award and the Patrick White Award. I am a member of the Buruburongal clan of the Aboriginal Darug Nation from the Hawkesbury River in New South Wales.  

Editing of text, Aboriginal history, lecturing, advising, mentoring writers.

Julie Janson : Poet, Novelist, Playwright, Visual Artist.