"The Great Displaced" vid + lyrics

The Great Displaced

by 

Omar Musa

for Jess

The boy lights a candle

and faces a perilous horizon.

He pulls on his socks, his boots

and picks seeds from between his teeth.

He will leave before dawn.

His sisters are asleep 

and he will not wake them

because he believes that dreams are fragile 

and shouldn't be disturbed.

The boy is not alone.

He is one of millions

across the broad black beyond,

enacting the ritual of leaving,

the ritual of 

sighs.

So to the cities they come,

over roads and highways of waves,

where coral reaches up like a migrant 

connecting the stars

 into maps of deliverance.

Suitcases blackened 

by the sweat and smoke of transit cities,

of roasting meat over hot rocks,

the diesel perfume of foreign docks,

they pass memories like bottles of wine.

The great displaced,

starboard side

harboured 

in waters that know nothing of them,

tasting strange languages and lands

harvesting hope with ashy hands-

the children 

of fractured communities.

The moon 

a sullen orphan 

who guides them to reefs of light 

where progress is the catchcry,

and we are swept towards

modernity 

at all costs.

Just because there was no gun to your temple

does not mean you were not forced to leave.

Villages and family ties disappear 

then re-appear freshborn and shining in our myths,

daubed on the doorways to ourselves.

The countrysides

become plots for our nostalgia, 

sown from afar, 

flourishing with orchards of memory.

Each tree laden with fruit, 

each fruit a repository of dreams

where real orchards no longer exist.

They are unmapped places

dedicated to everything we miss.

Do we speak too highly of the past?

Were the times not difficult then?

How do we fill the missing spaces?

The boy lights a candle.

He pulls on his boots

and faces a horizon

as heavy 

and perilous 

as chance.

My not-so-radical speech about poetry

On Wednesday the 18th of April, 2012, I made a speech at the Street Theatre, Canberra, at a public forum about radical ideas and burning issues facing the A.C.T. arts community, at the request of The Childers Group. I had to cut a few things off due to time limits but here is the full speech. Just a few humble words about poetry and young folks from a local scallywag.

My not-so-radical speech about repopularising poetry in Australia

Good evening. I pay respects to the traditional owners of the land, the Ngunnawal people, their elders past and present. We stand on your shoulders.

I speak as a rapper, poet, Queanbeyan boy and a product of the Canberra arts scene. Tonight I want to talk about poetry. What I want to propose is to bring poetry back into public consciousness, make it accessible to young people and re- weave it into the cultural fabric of Australia. I'm not going to beat around the bush- for many years, poetry in Australia has been regarded by most as dusty, wanky and above all, boring and irrelevant. Furthermore, it is often considered a pursuit solely for white, middle aged, middle class people, for academics who like the smell of their own farts. There is also a sense that it is something difficult, sacred and removed. I always found this sad. I constantly try to tell the young people I work with that poetry isn't difficult, it is something natural and within all of us. Editing poetry, or writing good poetry might be hard, but poetry in and of itself is a natural human activity. I know of many countries where poetry is so ingrained in the culture that reciting poetry at a family meal or amongst friends isn't considered strange. I believe a change needed to come to make poetry more accessible to young people and I think that change came in the form of hip hop and slam poetry in Australia.

For those who don't know, a poetry slam is a competitive form of poetry that started in Chicago in the early 1980s to bring poetry "back to the people." Poets (in teams or solo) get 2-3 mins to impress an audience and randomly selected judges with their own words and performances and can win cash prizes, half a bottle of bourbon, respect from their peers, whatever. The point is that they are really fun and dynamic events and are a form growing worldwide and in Australia. I won the Australian Poetry Slam in 2008 and since then have been watching its explosion here. I have seen rappers, bush poets, singers, actors and comedians all go in poetry slams, so it's not restricted to one style. It's a great way of getting people who normally wouldn't write or perform get on stage. It tears poetry out of those ivory towers and puts onto the stage.

As a side note I want to say that I don't think it's the be all and end all of poetry and that Avant-garde and academic poets should be cast into the wilderness, shot at dawn and old poetry books burned. Oftentimes people get defensive and teachers bristle as if by bringing this all up I've said we ought to piss on T.S. Eliot's headstone. All I'm saying is that these forms have given a lot of young people a voice who previously didn't feel as if they had one and is a brilliant access point to poetry. I have seen first hand in schools, youth centres, in parks and on street corners (here and around the world), how liberating and exciting this new found way of expressing oneself has been for young men and women, gay and straight, in the country and city, people with disabilities, and folks of every different background in multicultural Australia. Personally, as an Asian-Australian man with a Muslim background, who can often feel dislocated or unwanted in mainstream Australia, it has been a place where I can express myself with dignity and freedom. It's a joy to see the movement growing.

However, the job is not done, in fact, I think it's only just started. I think there is a shining opportunity in front of us in the A.C.T. that needs to be seized. Many people have got the ball rolling in terms of getting poetry workshops happening in high schools, jails, and youth centres and starting youth slams, including the Centre for Poetics and Justice and Emilie Zoey Baker in Melbourne, the Street University and Miles Merrill in Sydney (among many others). However, we don't have to look outside Canberra to see this in action. We have two well established slams- Traverse Poetry Slam and Bad!Slam!No!Biscuit!- and probably more since I moved away. Will Small, who I believe is here tonight, has just started the first ever A.C.T. wide high school and college slam. In the next few months he will have two slams (one north side and one south side) before a big one at the A.N.U. that will also involve uni students, supported by A.N.U. student equity. It is in its fledgling stages and of course requires more funding and support.

I believe this is a brilliant start to what could be a whole movement where every few weeks kids can go to a poetry slam, prepare for it and then rock out in front of their peers. For example, I know that in the U.S.A. and in Europe at big high school slams they are often held in a hall or basketball court, with the crowd cheering for their favourite poets. I think that is pretty cool and envision a time in Australia where this is possible. Not only are slams a great way for young people to express themselves, but to meet others from different parts of Canberra, from public and private schools. I remember when I did debating in high school my mum driving me from Queanbeyan to the wilds of Belco and Tuggers to debate, weekly. I envision a similar thing for poetry in the A.C.T, but bigger and cooler.

What I am saying is not radical- there are dozens of others working tirelessly around Australia to do similar things but I try at any opportunity to bring light to poetry and to these issues. Imagine if we had a broader national structure of an Australia wide youth slam where Queanbeyan High or Lake G competes against schools from Sydney, the N.T. or W.A. I think that in the A.C.T. we have a unique opportunity to be a leader in this area, where we foster a culture where young people are encouraged to be expressive, confident, questioning and creative, and people of all backgrounds, sexual orientations and genders are are invited to tell their stories and partake in the joy of writing and performing. It will go a small way to encouraging similar things in broader Australian society- a better understanding of ourselves and others. So, here we are on the cusp of something massive. I say with a bit of vision, a bit of persistence and a bit of cash, this is not out of our reach.

Omar Musa, 2012

Lyrics for "Fireflies"

She said,
"as a child I lived in the mountains,
I would collect fireflies in a jar and use the light to read my books."
I said,
"what a beautiful world it is."
She said "When I return to the mountains now there are no fireflies left,"
and I said "what a heartbreaking world it is."

So when our heroes grow old and our dreamers go mad.
When our songbirds go silent and fires burn on each corner-
I live for the little wins.
When there are footsteps in the hallway
and we don't know whose they are-
lover or torturer,
whether assassin or ally-
I live for the little wins.
When there are hands on ears and tape over mouths,
when I no longer know if I prefer to be awake or asleep,
the silence of the undertow or the breaking of waves on a reef.
When they promise us everything
and treat us like nothing,
I live for the little wins.

Like eating a meal and realising it's exactly what you wanted.
Like finding out mangoes are 9 bucks a box.
Like a surprise email that makes your day,
the first sip of water after a daylong fast,
the first line after writer's block,
like a student who can barely spell her name
but pens the perfect line.

I live for the things I'm ready to die for,
I stand for the things for which I'm ready to fall.
We all promise that to ourselves sometimes-
We, the people, most fragile of all.
We, the people, who drag nets to the shore
hoping to find diamond rings in the guts of fish or pearls in the bellies of dragons.
We, the men and the women, standing inches from screens
that scream at us to gain funds and lose weight.
We, the seething mass of darlings and friends,
rapists, racists and killers of men,
romper stompers, heroes, fashionistas and feminists,
protestors who swing their bats at the system
hoping the shards form mosaics
and
lovers who swing for the fences.

This for the survivors, the outcasts,
the eccentrics who never let coolness whitewash their madness.
For the kids on the mish, on the pavements, the basements,
in the flats and in the schoolyards.
They will treat your voice like a crime for which you have no alibi,
so make it a crime of passion,
raise it at their eyes,
shoplift time,
pick pocket perseverance
from the haters and leave the rest behind,
speak with purpose
teeth brighter than a city's spine.

Little win though it may be,
who knows?
someday, one day the fireflies may return.

FIREFLIES - OMAR MUSA x RUSH

My new poetry video. I hope you like it.

High Stakes feat. Mantra (produced by Ishu)

High Stakes feat. Mantra (produced by Ishu)

A Feeling

It starts with a feeling.

It starts with a beautiful madness.

It starts in the harbour of hearts
where the art is unmasked and you sail just to see if you can.

And each word is a boat, each boat in a storm,
is tattered and torn, battered and worn as the sails above,
patched together out of phantom histories,
alphabets of lovers and the hides of cities we miss.

We live only to say, "I am here. I exist."
we live for the times
when inspiration creeps up and surprises you like love,
when fortune means family
and truth appears as briefly as a whale's back.

So let the the clocks drip,
let us sail through white noise.
as we write letters to our kids of love and war,
of suffering, the shuffling of great feet, the beating of great oars,
of harbours, of beauty,
of dignity.

It starts with a feeling, and ends with a beginning.

ARCHITECTURE

This is a new(ish) poem I have only performed a handful of times. People seem to dig it so I chucked it up here. I guess it's a love poem. Sort of.


Architecture

She tried to apply her architecture to our lives.

She tried to build our lives along straight lines
of order, ladders, latticework, brickwork and mortar,
and deep aqueducts underneath to keep us nourished with water.

I never told her- "I have travelled unshod
along distant and pockmarked highways
to meet you here my dear.

I sailed on oceans of eggshells.
I camped in deserts of charcoal, burned spinifex and hurt,
resting in hovels and outhouses,
pieced together out of debris making form
outta chaos no payoffs in a life attempting to make joy out of pathos
I travelled unshod for you
my scarred flanks holding histories of love and loathing,
grudges clubs, drugs and cruel liquors, and me here hoping,
all the time with you in the distance,
a dreamlike lighthouse,
the raw glow of an open flame and a siren's song
with that skin a darker shade than bronze, and your promise of
perfectly pieced geometry, mosaics, skilfully drafted architecture of love,
I should have told you how far I'd come to meet you."

But when you told me you had been pregnant
with my child but decided not to keep it,
I didn't think of the airy domes, the picket fence houses where I could raise my
never to be born son or daughter, I didn't think of the women
in my hometown whose faces were inked with loss and the men
who raised the back of their hands or went running.

Instead I built coliseums of amber bottles
to lie in,
like a mock latter-day pharaoh or emperor,
staring upwards.
In the nadir of febrile nights
I would swim up through the sweat, shake myself awake,
and go stalking and
snarling into the cosmos.
I watched the prophets of my age preaching in parks creating myths or
strapped up with Krylon cans painting street hieroglyphs,
smoking spliffs in alleys reeking of piss.
I stared deep into TV screens as if into the black bore of a gun, numb,
I patted the heirloom diamond ring that I would never give you
and under the manifold lights of weeping suns and whirling moons,
neon billboards, halogen lights and blacklit rooms,
You would appear
stepping solemnly like a sleepwalker,
beautiful, wounded and haughty and severe.
I would freeze your tears and crucify you with them.

We both loved to suffer didn't we?

And there are two sides to every poem, aren't there?

You will be my Iliad, my epic.
You will be my Petra, my relic.

The desert is laced with ruins,
threaded with the skeletal remains
of boom and bust cities
once opulent with water
and the architecture of hearts.