By the rivers of Babylon

 

By the rivers of Babylon

 

“By the rivers of Babylon, There we sat down, Yeah, we wept, When we remembered Zion; When the wicked, Carried us away in captivity, Required from us a song, Now how shall we sing the Lord's song, In a strange land?”

 

I’ve alluded to it but never really addressed it: that my greatest experience of loss is not to belong to a people. What am I? an Irish-Australian universalist, but in Ireland I felt like an Australian & in Australia I was Irish.

 

But it’s not just that. Australia is not a people. I’ve rarely known of a more competitive, superficial & divided place, except the US. Every person for themselves. I’ve never felt part of a we that felt authentic. The closest I came was when singing in a Fijian band in my 20s, my married life with a Mauritian woman. Then I felt a sense of a belonging to something beyond blood & my time in Lewisham SE London, a motley bunch of multicultural poor with a song in their hearts.

Even in my family the half-brother to 3 others, I lacked a strong feeling of belonging.

Sure I have friends, but they're an odd assortment, who don't have much in common with one another. Odd balls I guess.

 

I am white & yet most of the people who’ve most influenced me have been black or Asian. Now for a lot of people this may go unremarked. Build your nuclear family & build a wall around it. But many families are unhappy. Regardless, that’s how it goes. But for a poet, to have no people is an existential threat. What am I gonna do? Language games to show how clever I or my AI is? Not for a true poet which is written in the bloody soil & the stars of people’s eyes, a people is necessary. & so I’ve adopted the world as my people. But logistically, my audience is invariably Australian domiciled. & so I ‘belong’ to Australia.

 

This brings me back to my second point & main thrust: that Australia is NOT a people, but divided individuals.

How can my words rise then & take flight? I feel very little love here. Most people would prefer I didn’t exist. What kind of a people is this?

It wounds me & weakens me, till I walk like a dwarf & lay myself open to bullies. Not the place for poets. Not a position from which to build a starry tower.

What kind of a people is this? I mix amongst them & nothing, no rhythm, no music, no scent intoxicating rises. What kind of a people is this?

Now how shall I sing the Lord's song, In a strange land?

 

 

Published & Copyright Malachi Doyle 2024.