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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required Mama – Translation of Kevin Gilbert’s « Mum » by T. Wignesan Kevin Gilbert (July 10, 1933 – April 1, 1993) - father of Irish-English ancestry, mother an aboriginal from New South Wales - was orphaned at seven. His elder sisters looked after him until he left school at 13 to scavenge a living through hunting rabbits and kangaroo and thriving on what he could pick up from white peoples’ rubbish heaps. He was also a seasonal worker, as he says, « …not just because times are hard, but because I was BLACK and the white man had taken my country from my people and kept me and my people as victims, as slaves. » In 1957, he was sentenced to penal servitude for life for having killed his white wife in a brawl when he was « pissed » in the wee hours of the morn. « …of which I can only say that, I was a Black boy in a white court where the jury, the judge, the lawyers were ALL white. What chance of justice ? » He served fourteen and a half years in prison where he managed to get some training in printing : a good many of his works were self-published at first. He has the distinction of being the first aboriginal playwright (his first play, The Cherry Pickers, written on toilet paper, was smuggled out of prison) ; the first to anthologize aboriginal poetry ; the first to produce a political tract or dissertation, and the frist to produce an oral history of his peoples in book form. Like his contemporary Oodgeroo Noonuccal, he enjoyed the reputation of being a great talker. This poem and the quotations are from his anthology : Inside Black Australia, Penguin, 1988.) T. Wignesan, december 4, 2016. Quinze chiens rôdaient ils hurlaient sans relâche leurs poils sales broussailleux et leurs os désignaient leur forme rappelant d’un passé maigre voire, encore plus pénible autour de leur vieille maison dont ils restaient toujours fidèles comme si ils voulaient dire il y ait quelque chose plus que le manger que nous retiennent ici une qualité que nous nous sentons et apprécions laquelle fait hérisser et briller nos pelages par l’amour de ceux qui habitent là-dedans et en entrant par la porte de la tente je m’étais pris à la gorge je vis une femme sur un lit ses jambes pareilles à des boîtes d’emballages morte – elle resta immobile le drap d’une couleur jaune sale la couverture déchirée se trouvant sur ses pieds la condition déplorable de sa tente délabrée des casseroles enrobées de graisse m’ont presque obligé à pousser des cris d’horreur – mon esprit divaguait tout azimut - le bruit me tambourinait aux oreilles j’entendis la voix douce d’un homme : « Ma Mama elle est aveugle et pendant toutes ces dix-sept années je n’ai jamais vu sans rime ni raison la décision pour ne pas nous accorder un chez-soi ce fait témoigne de cette vérité-là : la tente le lit les chiens sont mieux abrités,’ lui dit-il. ‘Ma Mama, elle est aveugle, elle dors maintenant elle réveillera bientôt la vérité est que elle n’ira nulle part ailleurs que restait dans son lit La Commission décida : pas de foyer ne pas mérité ou Noire ou quelque chose et…’ dit-il : ‘les chiens vivent mieux que nous dans ce pays et nous ne pourrions faire mieux que mourir ma mère, elle est aveugle,’ dit-il. © T. Wignesan – Paris, 2016
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