home is a poem

by Scott-Patrick Mitchell

bombshell
destroys our poem
dust in suitcase
of what was
the journey away from

here, sky
doesn’t whistle
with erasure
& serenade of shell

instead, wind pollinated
with dishes, bring memory
of land to the tongue

stove, a mouth:
dictionary of spices
combine old words
into new world

learn brick & mortar
remake language & syntax
reshape this place
write stanzas
with three grammars:
voice of mother
voice of father
voice of here & now
 
how a house is the poem
stuck inside our head
but a home is the poem
we write instead

3rd place

How do they rest

by Adele Aria

She pushes against the small birdcage
he cannot bear to unlock
The dog barks and whimpers
responding to resistance and rage

Her world shrunken and deflated by love
that he labels with shame
She does not go easy
hopes only seen through water above

He takes her future and deletes her past
to remake her as gone
Who and what can she be
when his story is what we hear last

..ooOoo..

My Pain Cannot Be Traded

by Arad Nik

Here colour and race fight together
Like boat people fight with politics
The yellow sun in the flag stamps the red earth with a black struggle 
And sets over Nauru where into the black night our hopes crumble
Detention is just another word for jail
The tears of a stolen generation cannot fail
Aboriginal history is a bloody book
Offshore you will find another one — if you look

My talking with aboriginal was beautiful and sweet
The boat is witness for where our stories meet
Between sky and ocean lies the only path for the refugees feet
Welcome said aboriginal and opened a door to me
A man from a different minority
I could read his story in the face behind the smile he gave me
I could read his story in the face behind the smile he showed me

His eyes became a mirror of peace rippling beneath the shadow of pain
His heart revealed my vision of paradise
His pain is my pain
How can I treat it?
His sad sound
How can I explain it?
All the stars in the sky tell his stories and reflect his love for this place
In this light Australia makes sense
Respect the sun in his flag
This was my first lesson

I am full of pain
Full of suffering
Full of torture
The dots painted on his face dance my pain

Don’t doubt
the world is beautiful
You can see it
enjoy it
But why in all this beautiful world
Can’t they give a space for me

You want to know more about my pain
Sit and listen
For my pain there is no cure
It is the same pain as his pain
Do you listen to him?
Do you hear him?

Can I Hold a Village?

by Victoria King

Can one person hold a village? Bear the message of lineage?
Can one person hold a people, a country, a faith, a race,
A way of seeing, of being?
A legacy?

Is this me?

Could I be that container, floating on waters
Captured and caught and still holding that message,
As a mother to my daughter?
That message whose nuance is so rich and so deep, so pungently technicolour-sweet
And then agonisingly elusive and fleet
But there, like a handprint
Indescribably perfect.

For yes, that message lies in me, swells through me
In the deep, blood-heavy thud in me,
Swelling and abating, flood-like
Washing, enveloping, leaving me wanting
Gasping, for I am unable not to hold this message
And tend it, and send it
In the milk of my breast
With the heft of my chest
Along the glide of my breath
Through the slick of my sweat
Imbued in my smiles, my tears, my cries, denials
My lullabies to my child.

Can one person whisper the wilds
Of the shushing trees that push and ease
The bulge of their girth through rock-layered earth?
Can they breathe the plumes of blue sky crags and silver streams,
Of smoke curls leaving evening fires?

Can one person perspire
The honey-rich sweetness of dates hanging uneaten?
Or hum the buzzing burr of flies
Snatching at dust-filled eyes
That are deep and brimming with love.

Am I enough?

My mother held all this in me
For me
As did her mother, and her mother, and her mother
… And so on forever.
Our heredity, our legacy.

But now, how can I find a way?
A castaway, no longer there
Encumbered, deracinated, gasping for air
Grasping
For the clutch of home, for the certainty of knowing.

I am suffocating, alienated, carved in two by the currents that rage in me,
Claw at me.
And yet their power enables me.
And so determinedly, I make my plea:

My child, let me try.

3rd place

Empty Envelope

by Yasaman Bagheri

Falling off the sinking boat
With our hands held against the waves,
We kept the pattern to rescue
Every second’s worth and stretched to a lifetime.

Inside the cloud of spilled gasoline and blood
When hope was sinking down
Hands reached to rescue.
Our disappeared boat was given a name,
(U)nifrom (L)ima (A)lpha.

As if water had washed our names away;
Instead, numbers had appeared
From one to a hundred and two.
We were (re)named and handed an envelope –
A message of hope.

Time worked differently in there:
We watched it, counted it;
They got paid for it;
We suffered it, lost it;
Inside the reports never read.

We were kids born between policies.
The Border Force man spoke to us of laws.
Laws denied us, detained us.
Laws always designed against us.

When he sent out his men and
they had our throats in their hands,
I thought about how
‘Boat’ came before ‘People’
And ‘Border’ before ‘Force’.

This was the message of hope:
We opened it, an empty envelope,
Full of unwritten words:
‘We will make sure
You will never have a home.’

Every year we are less human
More popular election-winning lies.
You can rise from the ocean
With blood-coloured wings
Sharks will let you pass – unharmed.
But you will drown in prison camps.

Close your eyes this time,
Let me build you a boat
From my two hands,
A boat that will set you free
From these prison camps.

You will sail to no ‘Shore’ ‘Off’ of our hearts;
The road you’ll travel from seeking refuge to finding home,
Will not end behind a maximum-security fence;
Home will not be a place in the palm of your hands
Where you hold the tally mark of years –
(Un)lived in prison camps.

..ooOoo..