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Poems from Baxter in 2005



Make a whistle from my throat


I do not know
what will happen after I die.
I do not want to know.
But I would like the Potter to make a whistle
from the clay of my throat.
May this whistle fall into the hands
of a cheeky and naughty child
and the child to blow hard on the whistle continuously
with the suppressed and silent air of his lungs
and disrupt the sleep
of those who seem dead
to my cries.

Anonymous
Baxter detention centre 2005

This poem, written by an asylum seeker detained in Villawood, was read out in Hyde Park, and also at the Canberra protest, for World Refugee Day 2002.

We have added some more poems ...

"We hear the voice of conscience through your mouths"

If one person dies,
there is always one who will bury them.
If a bird falls from the sky,
there is one who will mend its broken wing.
If a building collapses,
Someone will dig to rescue survivors.
After the deluge,
The ones who are left will search for loved ones.

There are still just consciences.

We are the dying,
just barely breathing
We are the birds,
hearts pierced by the arrow of faith
We cry out from beneath
the rubble of humanity
Washed up by the flood to this shore

We are innocents who have kissed
the noose of Australian Democracy
We were the fan to the political fire,
who now find ourselves in the flames.
We who believed in the dream of freedom,
are stuck fast in a quagmire of prejudice.

You are the only hope after God
And you are the light in the
darkness of Australian democracy
You are the ones who are left

We hear the voice of conscience though your mouths

On behalf of the prisoners and detainees, thank you
We appreciate you dearly.
I wish my pen could express the appreciation,
but there are no words one can find
for the true feelings of human beings.

BLUES FOR WOOMERA #2

Let me dig my own grave
If it helps ease the burden upon you
Let me dig thro this iron baked crust
Thro this land forged hard in your image.
Arid. Free from water and compassion.
It is back-breaking work, but
Let me dig my own grave
If it helps ease the burden upon you.

Allow me to hang myself with a noose
Made of your gentle razor wire that will slice and choke.
And I will save you the trouble of a
Trial or a hearing. I will save you
The inconvenience of building a gallows,
Or even the cost of my return fare, so
Allow me to hang myself with a noose
Made of your gentle razor wire that will slice and choke.

Permit me, if you will,
To fall into a pool of my own blood, at my child's feet.
I will slash my own skin and sever my veins
Causing my blood to pump and splash to the floor
Where it will mingle with the dust of this arid place
There will be no blood on your hands, so
Permit me, if you will,
To fall into a pool of my own blood, at my child's feet.

Let me dig my own grave
If it helps ease the burden upon you
Let me dig thro this iron baked crust
Thro this land forged hard in your image.
Arid. Free from water and compassion.
It is back-breaking work, but
Let me dig my own grave
If it helps ease the burden upon you.

Nick Allen, July 2002

Asylum

Will you please observe through the wire
I am sewing my feet together
They have walked about as far
as they ever need to go.

Will you further observe
through the wire
I am sewing my heart together
It is now so full of
the ashes of my days
it will not hold any more.

Through the wire
one last time
please observe
I am sewing my lips together
that which you are denying us
we should never have
had to ask for.

Mehmet al Assad 2002


MY NAME IS ASYLUM

My name is asylum
I was born in here
Here is the detention centre

The centre is circled by wire
Wire makes it scaring

The wire is 1, 2, 3, 4, 5
1 is the wire for closure
2 is the coiled barbed wire
3 is the protection for 1 and 2
4 is the razor wire on the top of 3
5 is the high fence

The higher fence
Which stops birds coming inside
Stops thoughts and imagination
Which stops the world outside
The higher fence which becomes
The border between me and Australia

My name is asylum
I was born in this centre
The centre is in Villawood
Villawood is far from Australia

It has security inside
People from all over the world
No!
Not from every where
There are no Americans here
There are no English and Germans here
There are no Japanese in the centre

The centre is multicultural
But it has only one culture inside
The detention culture

My name is asylum
I was born detained
But not to be detained
I have 850 days
I am thinking
How did I get here?
How did I find my self here?
Here in the detention centre
I don’t even know why I am here
Nobody told me why

My name is asylum
I am still here
In the detention centre
In Sydney
In Australia.

Angel Boujbiha 2002

ARE THESE THINGS HAPPENING IN AUSTRALIA

Villawood has plenty guards
Called security officers
Their duties
Are well paid

They are equipped
To secure Australia
To prevent Australia
>From these children
>From these criminals

What crime did baby Fatima committed?
She can not even speak
Her language is
Mama or Papa

She is born inside the detention
In 1999
Does she have any political opinion?
What does she know about crime?
Why she is detained?

Is Villawood in Australia?

Angel Boujbiha 2002

 

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Page modified 30 March 2005