In 2020, the murder of George Floyd and the resurgence of the Black Lives Matter movement drew attention to the ongoing issue of Aboriginal deaths in custody, sparking a surge of protests in Australia.
30 years after the final report of the Royal Commission into Aboriginal Deaths in Custody, very little has changed. Eight Aboriginal people have died in custody since March this year.
As Gunai poet Kirli Saunders notes: "Deaths in custody isn't a new thing; advocating for Black lives across Australia and the world is not new."
Saunders is part of a wave of First Nations women and non-binary writers who are using poetry to grapple with the ongoing impact of colonisation; poets including Evelyn Araluen, Ellen van Neerven and Alison Whittaker.
These writers are being heard, too: they are publishing collections, editing anthologies, winning awards and headlining major events in the literary calendar.
Last month, Mununjali Yugambeh writer van Neerven swept the NSW Premier's Literary Awards with their 2020 collection Throat, winning Book of the Year, the Kenneth Slessor Prize for Poetry and the Multicultural NSW Award – prizes worth $60,000 in total.
The following week, Araluen, a descendant of the Bundjalung Nation, opened Sydney Writers' Festival alongside two Miles Franklin-winning First Nations writers: Melissa Lucashenko and Tara June Winch – just one month after the release of her debut collection, Dropbear.
"We're in one of the most exciting times for Black writing I think that we've ever seen," Araluen told ABC TV's Art Works.
Saunders, author of the 2019 collection Kindred, says: "Of course Black women are gonna change the world. Of course they're changing the world through poems."
Laying the groundwork
Gomeroi poet Alison Whittaker, author of award-winning collections Lemons in the Chicken Wire (2016) and Blakwork (2018), says she was drawn to poetry by its expediency and political impact – two factors she believes appeal to many First Nations poets.
"One of the reasons that mob flock to poetry is because of the medium's flexibility to every speaker and that everyone is capable of making it their own."
Whittaker says the recent flourishing of First Nations poetry is not new.
"We [First Nations peoples] have our own literary canon that has not just emerged out of the ether – it has a really long precedent behind it," she says, pointing to the protest and experimental work of Lionel Fogarty.
She also credits the efforts of previous generations of poets for the current "flourishing of poetic communities that are people of colour, that are First Nations people, queer and trans people [and] non-binary mob".
Push and shove
The trajectory of First Nations poetry has happened in tandem with a broader shift, over the last four decades, as First Nations publishers, awards and networks were established – a cultural corollary to the land rights movement and increased political advocacy and representation.
Indigenous-owned press Magabala Books published its first title in 1987. A year later, the David Unaipon Award for emerging Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander writers was set up by the University of Queensland Press.
The hard-fought wins of the 70s, 80s and 90s were not without backlash, however; under John Howard's government (1996-2007) there was what Araluen describes as a "conservative cultural push".
"In the same period, globally, we have a lot of movements for First Nations literary representation in other countries; [but] in Australia, we have this sort of much more quiet, declining period [for First Nations writing]," says Araluen.
"[But] there were a lot of people working very hard at that time [during the Howard era] for Aboriginal publishing."
These included Aboriginal women and their allies in universities and publishing houses, including Kerry Reed-Gilbert, Anita Heiss, Sandra Phillips and Jeanine Leane.
In 2013, the First Nations Australia Writers Network, an advocacy body for First Nations writers, offering development and networking opportunities, was founded, with Reed-Gilbert as its first chair.
A community outlook
Whittaker, Saunders and Araluen all credit the current "nurturing" community of First Nations writers as essential to their development.
"I wouldn't have to go to writers' festivals and find myself just sitting in a green room not knowing what to do. There'd always be someone there who was ready to yarn," Whittaker says.
Saunders says her appreciation of poetry and confidence in her own work was shaped by First Nations poets like van Neerven, Ali Cobby Eckermann and Oodgeroo Noonuccal.
"The more that I read these powerful poets the more that I felt witnessed and the more that I wanted to provide space like that for other people," she says.
Araluen says she has been supported and encouraged by peers including van Neerven and Whittaker; in turn, she champions the next generation, including poets like Jazz Money, whose debut collection, How to Make a Basket, will be released in September.
"We all respond off each other's work and it makes us stronger writers," she says.
But she points to the "enormous gaps" in the history of First Nations poetry, with older generations of women not afforded the same opportunities as women writing today.
"Their voices aren't here with us today," Araluen says.
"That's why I think there's just this real love and warmth and enthusiasm in the writing community today to support the emergence of new voices."
An industry scrambling to catch up
Why has it taken mainstream publishing so long to catch up with the work of First Nations poets?
Saunders says it's a matter of structural power dynamics.
"People don't want there to be an acknowledgment of the brilliance, the wisdom, the deep connection, the knowing, the grounding, the holding, the sharing, the love, the intuition, the understanding that First Nations people have in Australia. Because to do so would undermine the systems of oppression that have sought to keep us small all this time."
Araluen concedes that the current interest in First Nations poetry might come down to tokenism, or the feelings of guilt or anxiety among white gatekeepers.
"But I don't think we need to linger too long on the motivations, so long as we take advantage of the space and we continue to expand it and encourage it – and we make the work that we do in that space as radical as possible."
As the Australian publishing industry continues to evolve towards equity, Whittaker warns of the structural challenges and exploitative practices that exist for emerging First Nations writers.
"Sometimes that renewed industry attention turns into predatory practices. And that's something a lot of mob are wary of," says the author.
She says emerging First Nations writers can be pressured into "unsuitable" publishing contracts, or encouraged to produce full-length works early in their careers – and to produce them quickly.
Araluen agrees, and says structural change is necessary for the next wave of First Nations writers to flourish.
"We need to ensure that they have the time to develop their voice to be as strong as it possibly can be – before publication," she says.
"We want to have Aboriginal editors and Aboriginal publishers, we want to have Aboriginal literary agents, so that at every stage in the development of one's craft, there is cultural support to ensure that a writer is making the best choices for themselves."
Undermine and challenge
Ongoing challenges aside, Whittaker says the future of Australian poetry is already here – and it's "unstoppable".
"It's never felt, to me at least, more cacophonous, more unpredictable and more exciting. I'm seeing s*** I've never seen before, and it is thrilling," Whittaker says.
"I'm seeing people who, like myself, are just weirdos and misfits actually being able to produce super weird poetry, unexpected poetry and to be performing for audiences that look like us."
She, Saunders and Araluen are conscious of their roles in shaping the future of First Nations poetry.
Saunders speaks of her responsibility "to shape perspectives and to speak truthfully and to make more space for truth".
Araluen sees her role as deconstructing damaging representations of First Nations peoples – so she can clear space for emerging writers to tell their own stories.
"I'm trying to critique and undermine and challenge so that hopefully the house falls down a little bit," Araluen told Art Works.
"So the next person can come along and they don't have to deconstruct a pile of s*** to get to the thing that they want to say. That's actually how we prepare for future generations."
