Country Speaks

Good evening.

I thought…

Well, that’s a very Noongar thing to ask us to do.

Because listening to Country isn’t a new idea for us.

It’s not a workshop.
It’s not a mindfulness exercise.
It’s not something we put on a festival program and then go home from.

It is knowledge.
It is relationship.
It is survival.
It is remembering who you are.

And perhaps most importantly —
it is understanding that the ground beneath your feet is not silent.

Country speaks.

It speaks through the wind.
Through water.
Through birds.
Through the seasons.
Through trees.
Through fire.
Through the smell of rain.
Through the places that have changed.
And the places that stubbornly refuse to.

Country speaks through memory.

And sometimes…
Country speaks through us.

But here’s the thing about listening.

You can’t listen properly if you’re always talking.

And we live in a world that is very, very good at talking.

Everyone has something to say.

We have opinions before we’ve heard the question.

We have responses before we’ve heard the story.

We have headlines before we’ve read the article.

We have arguments before we’ve understood the person standing in front of us.

We are surrounded by noise.

And somehow, we’ve convinced ourselves that noise means we’re connected.

It doesn’t.

Sometimes noise is simply noise.

Listening is different.

Listening asks something of us.

It asks us to slow down.
To be uncomfortable.
To put our own certainty aside.

That’s harder than it sounds.

Especially when you think you already know the story.

As a Noongar woman, I’ve learnt that there are some stories you don’t rush.

Some stories need time.
Some stories need the right place.
Some stories need the right people.

And some stories need you to sit down…

and shut up.

And listen.

That’s an important cultural teaching for everybody, I reckon.

Because listening is not passive.

Listening is an action.

If I listen to you telling me that something is hurting you —
and then I do nothing —
did I really listen?

If Country tells us the water is suffering —
and we keep polluting it —
did we listen?

If young people tell us they’re afraid about their future —
and we tell them they’re too young to understand —
did we listen?

If First Nations people have been saying for generations:

but nothing changes —
that’s not listening.

That’s waiting for your turn to speak.

And poetry…

Poetry can interrupt that.

Because poetry makes us stop.

It makes us look at something again.

It makes us hear something we thought we’d already heard.

A poem can take an ordinary moment —

a cup of tea,
a child,
a funeral,
a river,
a grandmother,
a broken heart —

and suddenly make us realise:

Oh.

This matters.

That’s why I love poetry.

It notices things.

Poetry notices the things that the rest of the world is too busy to notice.

A poet sees the crack in the footpath.

The old woman sitting alone.

The child watching the rain.

The migrant hearing a familiar language on a crowded train.

The young person trying to work out who they are.

The old people remembering what used to be there.

The river carrying stories downstream.

Poetry says:

Look.
Listen.
Don’t walk past this.

And that’s why I believe poetry has always belonged to resistance.

Not necessarily resistance with a raised fist.

Sometimes resistance is simply refusing to forget.

Refusing to let a story disappear.

Refusing to let a language die.

Refusing to accept that somebody else’s version of history is the only version.

Refusing to be embarrassed by where you come from.

Refusing to make yourself smaller so someone else can feel comfortable.

And sometimes resistance is joy.

Oh, yes.

Joy can be resistance too.

Especially for people who have been told for generations that their culture, their language, their stories, their very presence were somehow problems to be managed.

Sometimes the most powerful thing you can say is:

Look at us.
We’re still here.

And we’re having a bloody good time.

I want to say something about First Nations poetry.

Because sometimes people approach Aboriginal writing expecting only pain.

They expect trauma.
They expect history.
They expect sorrow.

And yes —
our history contains enormous pain.

We must tell the truth about that.

But we are not only our pain.

We are love.
We are family.
We are humour.
We are cheekiness.
We are old people sitting around telling stories.
We are children running around where they’re not supposed to be.
We are music.
We are art.
We are language.
We are food.
We are ceremony.
We are celebration.
We are ordinary Tuesday afternoons.
We are extraordinary survival.
We are joy.

And our poets write all of that.

Our storytelling did not begin when somebody put a pen to paper.

Our stories are much older than that.

They travelled through voice.
Through song.
Through dance.
Through ceremony.
Through Country.
Through generations.

Our old people didn’t need a publishing contract to know that a story mattered.

They didn’t need somebody sitting in a university office to tell them that their knowledge was literature.

They knew.
Country knew.
The old people knew.

And now we have another generation of Aboriginal writers who are taking those old ways of knowing and bringing them into new forms.

Onto pages.
Onto stages.
Into classrooms.
Into theatres.
Into festivals like this one.

And I think that’s beautiful.

But I also think we need to be careful.

Because when we listen to another person’s story, we don’t automatically become the owner of it.

Listening is not collecting.
Listening is not taking.
Listening is relationship.

There are stories that belong to families.
Stories that belong to communities.
Stories that belong to Country.

There are stories that can be shared.

And stories that should remain where they belong.

Knowing the difference is part of respect.

And perhaps that’s another thing poetry can teach us:

There Is Room

I think about the young people.

The young poets.

The kids sitting somewhere tonight with a notebook or a phone, writing something nobody else has seen.

Maybe they think it isn’t good enough.

Maybe they think poetry is something other people do.

Maybe somebody has already told them:

I want those young people to hear me tonight.

Write it anyway.

Write the messy version.
Write the angry version.
Write the funny version.
Write the love poem.
Write the poem that doesn’t make sense.
Write the poem your English teacher doesn’t understand.
Write the poem your grandmother understands immediately.
Write the poem that makes you cry.
Write the poem that makes you laugh.
Write the poem you are not ready to show anybody.

Because your voice doesn’t need permission to exist.

And if you’re a young Aboriginal writer —
I want you to know this particularly:

You do not have to explain your existence before you are allowed to create.

You don’t have to make your culture palatable.

You don’t have to translate every part of yourself for everybody else.

You don’t have to tell the story other people are expecting.

You can tell the story you want to tell.

You can write about Country.
You can write about politics.
You can write about your nan.
You can write about your first kiss.
You can write absolute rubbish if that’s what you need to write that day.

laughter

That’s allowed too.

You are allowed to be a whole human being.

And to the rest of us —

poets, teachers, parents, publishers, readers,
institutions, festival organisers —

our job is to listen.

Not just to applaud when somebody says something beautiful.

But to make space.

To open doors.
To share opportunities.
To pay artists properly.

To listen when somebody says a system isn’t working.

To listen when a young writer says:

And then ask ourselves:

What can I change?

Because belonging isn’t something we should ask people to prove.

We should build places where people can walk in and feel:

There is room for me here.

And that is what I hope this festival becomes.

A place where there is room.

Room for different voices.
Different generations.
Different cultures.
Different ways of seeing.
Different ways of speaking.

Room for the poet who has published ten books.

And the poet who has never published a single line.

Room for the confident voice.

And the trembling voice.

Room for the beautiful poem.

And the strange poem.

And the angry poem.

And the poem that makes you sit there afterwards and think:

“Bloody hell.”

That’s a good poem.

Because poetry isn’t supposed to make everything comfortable.

Sometimes poetry should disturb us.

Sometimes it should break something open.

Sometimes it should make us question what we thought we knew.

Sometimes it should put an ear to the ground and say:

Listen.

There is something happening here.

And I think that is particularly important right now.

Because the world is changing.

Our climate is changing.
Our cities are changing.
Our communities are changing.
Our relationships are changing.
The way young people communicate is changing.
The way stories travel is changing.
Technology is changing.

Everything feels fast.

And when everything is moving quickly, the temptation is to move quickly with it.

But Country teaches us something different.

Sometimes you need to stop.
Sometimes you need to wait.
Sometimes you need to watch.
Sometimes you need to listen long enough to notice what everyone else has missed.

So tonight I want to offer you a little experiment.

When you leave this building —
don’t immediately reach for your phone.

Walk outside.
Look up.
Look around.
Put your ear to the ground.

And listen.

Listen to Booraloo.
Listen to the city.
Listen to the river.
Listen to the people walking beside you.

And ask yourself:

What is this place trying to tell me?

And maybe you’ll hear something.

Maybe you won’t.

That’s okay.

Listening doesn’t always give us an immediate answer.

Sometimes listening is simply making ourselves available.

Available to be surprised.
Available to learn.
Available to change.

I think that is what poetry asks of us.

To remain available.
To remain curious.
To remain human.

Because underneath every poem there is usually a human being saying:

And the reader answers:

I heard you.

That exchange is precious.

Especially now.

When so many people are desperate to be heard.

Perhaps what the world needs isn’t another million people shouting.

Perhaps what we need is a few more people willing to listen.

Really listen.

With our whole bodies.
With our history.
With our humility.
With our hearts.
With our ears —
and our feet firmly planted on Country.

So tonight, as Patron of the Perth Poetry Festival, I want to thank the poets.

Thank you for listening to the things the rest of us sometimes miss.

Thank you for finding words when the rest of us have none.

Thank you for reminding us that language is alive.

Thank you for making us laugh.

Thank you for making us uncomfortable.

Thank you for making us remember.

Thank you for making us feel.

And thank you for reminding us that stories matter.

And to everybody here tonight:

I hope you leave this festival with more than a favourite poem.

I hope you leave with a question.

I hope you leave with something that stays with you.

Something that follows you home.

Something that sits quietly beside you tomorrow morning.

Something you hear when you walk beside the river.

Something you remember when an old person tells you a story.

Something you think about when a young person speaks.

Something that makes you stop.

Something that makes you turn around.

Something that makes you listen.

Because the ground beneath us is not empty.

It is full.

Full of footsteps.
Full of memory.
Full of stories.
Full of ancestors.
Full of possibility.

And Country is still speaking.

It has always been speaking.

The question isn’t whether it has a voice.

The question is:

Are we quiet enough to hear it?

So tonight —
put your ear to the ground.

Because somewhere beneath our feet,
something is moving.

Something is remembering.

Something is becoming.

And perhaps —
if we are very quiet —
we might hear it.

Thank you for listening, and welcome to the Perth Poetry Festival Gala 2026.