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Best Famous Aboriginal Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Aboriginal poems. This is a select list of the best famous Aboriginal poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Aboriginal poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of aboriginal poems.

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Late Summer Fires

 The paddocks shave black
with a foam of smoke that stays,
welling out of red-black wounds.

In the white of a drought
this happens. The hardcourt game.
Logs that fume are mostly cattle,

inverted, stubby. Tree stumps are kilns.
Walloped, wiped, hand-pumped,
even this day rolls over, slowly.

At dusk, a family drives sheep 
out through the yellow
of the Aboriginal flag.

Written by Walt Whitman |

Mannahatta

 I WAS asking for something specific and perfect for my city, 
Whereupon, lo! upsprang the aboriginal name! 

Now I see what there is in a name, a word, liquid, sane, unruly, musical, self-sufficient;

I see that the word of my city is that word up there, 
Because I see that word nested in nests of water-bays, superb, with tall and wonderful
 spires,
Rich, hemm’d thick all around with sailships and steamships—an island sixteen
 miles
 long, solid-founded, 
Numberless crowded streets—high growths of iron, slender, strong, light, splendidly
 uprising toward clear skies; 
Tide swift and ample, well-loved by me, toward sundown, 
The flowing sea-currents, the little islands, larger adjoining islands, the heights, the
 villas, 
The countless masts, the white shore-steamers, the lighters, the ferry-boats, the black
 sea-steamers well-model’d;
The down-town streets, the jobbers’ houses of business—the houses of business of
 the
 ship-merchants, and money-brokers—the river-streets; 
Immigrants arriving, fifteen or twenty thousand in a week; 
The carts hauling goods—the manly race of drivers of horses—the brown-faced
 sailors; 
The summer air, the bright sun shining, and the sailing clouds aloft; 
The winter snows, the sleigh-bells—the broken ice in the river, passing along, up or
 down,
 with the flood tide or ebb-tide;
The mechanics of the city, the masters, well-form’d, beautiful-faced, looking you
 straight
 in the eyes; 
Trottoirs throng’d—vehicles—Broadway—the women—the shops and
 shows, 
The parades, processions, bugles playing, flags flying, drums beating; 
A million people—manners free and superb—open voices—hospitality—the
 most
 courageous and friendly young men; 
The free city! no slaves! no owners of slaves!
The beautiful city, the city of hurried and sparkling waters! the city of spires and
 masts! 
The city nested in bays! my city! 
The city of such women, I am mad to be with them! I will return after death to be with
 them! 
The city of such young men, I swear I cannot live happy, without I often go talk, walk,
 eat,
 drink, sleep, with them!

Written by Les Murray |

The Aboriginal Cricketer

 Mid-9th century

Good-looking young man
in your Crimean shirt
with your willow shield
up, as if to face spears,

you're inside their men's Law,
one church they do obey;
they'll remember you were here.
Keep fending off their casts.

Don't come out of character.
Like you they suspect
idiosyncrasy of witchcraft.
Above all, don't get out

too easily, and have to leave here
where all missiles are just leather
and come from one direction.
Keep it noble. Keep it light.