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Life Arts    H4'ed 2/28/21

Blackfella: Down Under: Poem 4 of 10: From the Dark Ages to the 'Enwhitenment'

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National Sorry Day , Australia 2015, .Sorry Song. to Stolen Generations
National Sorry Day , Australia 2015, .Sorry Song. to Stolen Generations
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Poem #4: From the Dark Ages to the 'Enwhitenment'

by John Kendall Hawkins


Well, God knows Michael Jackson tried to moon

walk and slide right out of his crazy skin,

he couldn't handle being Black in the end,

a genius on par with Fred Astaire -- "Hey, coon,"

they hollered anyway. And Letterman

mocked the chair in "Billie Jean" (he meant child),

and mocked his happy feet -- the insults piled

high, he promised to be a better man

to the "Man in the Mirror," and grew white

and whiter, like an ad for Clorox bleach

screaming get me out of me, I beseech,

and perished in a Never Land of night.

In the end, even Blacks lined up to kill

his dual nature; he died a cheap thrill.


Down Under there were 'rabbit proof fences'

to keep children in, 1500 miles,

a great wall of barbed wire. And white smiles

that promised a better life. Pretenses

that saw in the "half-castes" veneration --

the light of white in black jack-o'-lanterns,

ignis fatuus in dead soul patterns

that became the Stolen Generation.

Caucasians eager to take back the night

they had their way with Blackfella's women,

and let their glowy worm sperms go a-swimmin,

cart off the evidence, might is right.

It would be nice to say that things have changed,

no more kidnappings, but they're still deranged.


Anyway, it got worse, in the Black book

Benang: From the Heart by Kim Scott, wherein

there was heaps of rape and lots of queerin.

Harley, "the First White Man Born" has a look

in the mirror, product of weeding out

the Blackfella genes over multi-gens,

and searches for some sign, his face real tense,

as if he'd been uprooted, and lo! no doubt,

there it is -- the one place left to remind

him of his core being before they meddled,

the white smile wiping place now unsettled:

the negroid pucker hole of his behind.

And thus it is and thus it shall remain --

the streak in the white dacks, the human stain.

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John Kendall Hawkins is an American ex-pat freelance journalist and poet currently residing in Oceania.

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