AW: This makes sense to me because I see that strong visual awareness coming through in the striking imagery. In a similar vein, I’m curious to hear your thoughts on similarities and differences between poetry and prose or, in your case, specifically, your practices as a biographer. Can you expand on your manuscript, ‘Life on Brewarrina Mission’, which was shortlisted for the David Unaipon Award? How does this work extend awareness of the New South Wales Aboriginal culture through your writing?
BS: I submitted a manuscript for consideration, which was accepted into the David Unaipon Award, and offered the chance to take the manuscript to the next stage of producing a book, but this has not yet happened. The manuscript was shortlisted, and it was based on the research I conducted for my Masters research. It included an oral history of my partner’s mum and was a chapter in my thesis. My hope is to turn it into a biography or script.
AW: That sounds like it would be an amazing book.
BS: One thing I forgot to mention earlier was when I finished my Masters, I collated all my papers and all my articles because I knew I could never look at them again. You never do, you think you might be able to, but you don’t. So, I collated all the papers produced for my research and then when my partner and I went to stay on the reserve – I made a big bonfire and burnt all my research. It was so good. It was almost like the words on the page, about all the women, their experiences, and struggles being on the reserve were taken up in the night air by the smoke. I couldn’t throw the papers in the bin or shred them because that felt too violent. It’s like breaking it up and cutting into it pieces. I decided to burn it all, with no pieces left intact. And in a way, the smoke from the burning papers cleansed me as well. It was a pitch-black night, with no moon, and every time the fire died down, I’d throw on more papers; it was the best thing I had ever done.
AW: That sounds amazing.
BS: Yeah, it was cool [laughs].
AS: And now we come to the next impressive string on your bow, your work, which as I understand it, is a role through which you take advocacy to protect First Nations culture and heritage. Can you share a little bit about what your role involves and the difference you’re striving to make?
BS: I work in the protection of heritage across New South Wales, guided by community interests. This also involves repatriation – that is, the return of ancestorial artefacts from museums back to the community to honour how ancestors may be uncovered in the environment from natural causes like high tides or flooding. Working with communities, taking care of Country, taking care of sites, and having them recognised and protected is very important to me. I spend a lot of time walking around the Country, looking at the Country, and listening to people explain the Country to me.
It’s not a fast process – it’s a slow process; sometimes working with the community, there’s silence. And silence is not necessarily a bad thing. Silence is just as important. As an Aboriginal poet this is not an uncomfortable way of working because that’s how I write. You take the time to consider, slowing things down and spending time immersed in looking at the world around you. So, that’s how that is how my work and poetry writing influence each other. This was particularly noticeable in my commission by the National Gallery of Australia. The National Gallery of Australia, through Red Room Poetry, commissioned me to write an ekphrastic poem based on an artwork from their collection, and I chose Eugene von Guérard’s Northeast View from the top of Mount Kosciusko (1866), and that poem touches on my experience of working with the community in that area.
AW: Your own cultural heritage is Barkindji. Something that a lot of non-Indigenous people fail to understand is that First Nations Australian cultures are varied. Could you tell us a little bit about what makes Barkindji culture special and unique?
BS: That’s right, I am a Barkindji Wiimpatja, we are the people of the river. The river is very important to us, the Baaka, which in Barkindji means ‘the people of the river’. So, that’s what makes us unique and proud. We were/are centered around the river. We respect the Ngatyi people who live there. We’re very strong, strong people, warriors.
AW: For many writers and artists, including myself, creative expression is often a mode of activism or a means to speak up about issues that matter to us and where we’d like to see change. In my own work, I struggle to find the right balance between not being overly didactic but still presenting the point in a way that will prompt people to think and hopefully feel something. Because I think that emotion is crucial when it comes to the drive to genuine action and change. In the poems of yours that I’ve read, I think the strike is balanced incredibly well. I am interested in hearing your reflections on the art of political writing.
BS: As creatives, we’re always striving for something better in the world. I aim to create change. I want people, when they read my work, to go through some sort of transformation. Whether it’s the deliberate choice of words where it’s forcing someone’s mouth or tongue to work differently. I like to change people by deliberately putting certain words together or getting people to physically feel something. Because if people take the time to read my work, I want to give them that gift. I want them to come out the other side differently.
