Oodgeroo Noonuccal (1920–1993) was a groundbreaking Aboriginal Australian poet, political activist, and educator, best known for her passionate advocacy for Indigenous rights and cultural pride. Born Kathleen Jean Mary Ruska on North Stradbroke Island (Minjerribah), she later adopted the traditional name Oodgeroo Noonuccal, meaning “paperbark of the Noonuccal people,” to reflect her identity and heritage.
Her 1964 poetry collection We Are Going was the first book published by an Aboriginal woman, making her a pioneering literary voice. Through simple yet powerful language, her poems explore themes of dispossession, racism, land rights, and the strength of Aboriginal culture. Works like “Municipal Gum,” “No More Boomerang,” and “The Dawn Is at Hand” challenged non-Indigenous Australians to confront historical injustice.
Beyond writing, Oodgeroo was a key figure in the struggle for Indigenous civil rights, notably campaigning for the 1967 referendum that recognised Aboriginal people in the census. She also established Moongalba, a cultural learning centre, to teach young people about Aboriginal traditions. Oodgeroo Noonuccal remains a towering figure in Australian literature and history — her words and activism continue to inspire generations.
'The Past'
Let no one say the past is dead.The past is all about us and within.
Haunted by tribal memories, I know
This little now, this accidental present
Is not the all of me, whose long making
Is so much of the past.
Tonight here in suburbia as I sit
In easy chair before electric heater,
Warmed by the red glow, I fall into dream:
I am away
At the camp fire in the bush, among
My own people, sitting on the ground,
No walls around me,
The stars over me,
The tall surrounding trees that stir in the wind
Making their own music,
Soft cries of the night coming to us, there
Where we are one with all old Nature's lives
Known and unknown,
In scenes where we belong but have now forsaken.
Deep chair and electric radiator
Are but since yesterday,
But a thousand camp fires in the forest
Are in my blood.
Let none tell me the past is wholly gone.
Now is so small a part of time, so small a part
Of all the race years that have moulded me.
We Are Going
They came in to the little town A semi-naked band subdued and silent
All that remained of their tribe.
They came here to the place of their old bora ground
Where now the many white men hurry about like ants.
Notice of the estate agent reads: 'Rubbish May Be Tipped Here'.
Now it half covers the traces of the old bora ring.
'We are as strangers here now, but the white tribe are the strangers.
We belong here, we are of the old ways.
We are the corroboree and the bora ground,
We are the old ceremonies, the laws of the elders.
We are the wonder tales of Dream Time, the tribal legends told.
We are the past, the hunts and the laughing games, the wandering camp fires.
We are the lightening bolt over Gaphembah Hill
Quick and terrible,
And the Thunderer after him, that loud fellow.
We are the quiet daybreak paling the dark lagoon.
We are the shadow-ghosts creeping back as the camp fires burn low.
We are nature and the past, all the old ways
Gone now and scattered.
The scrubs are gone, the hunting and the laughter.
The eagle is gone, the emu and the kangaroo are gone from this place.
The bora ring is gone.
The corroboree is gone.
And we are going.'
Municipal Gum
Gumtree in the city street,Hard bitumen around your feet,
Rather you should be
In the cool world of leafy forest halls
And wild bird calls
Here you seems to me
Like that poor cart-horse
Castrated, broken, a thing wronged,
Strapped and buckled, its hell prolonged,
Whose hung head and listless mien express
Its hopelessness.
Municipal gum, it is dolorous
To see you thus
Set in your black grass of bitumen--
O fellow citizen,
What have they done to us?
Dreamtime
Here, at the invaders talk-talk place,We, who are the strangers now,
Come with sorrow in our hearts.
The Bora Ring, the Corroborees,
The sacred ceremonies,
Have all gone, all gone,
Turned to dust on the land,
That once was ours.
Oh spirits from the unhappy past,
Hear us now.
We come, not to disturb your rest.
We come, to mourn your passing.
You, who paid the price,
When the invaders spilt our blood.
Your present generation comes,
Seeking strength and wisdom in your memory.
The legends tell us,
When our race dies,
So too, dies the land.
May your spirits go with us
From this place.
May the Mother of life,
Wake from her sleeping,
and lead us on to the happy life,
That once was ours.
Oh mother of life,
Oh spirits from the unhappy past,
Hear the cries of your unhappy people,
And let it be so.
Oh spirits- Let it be so.
Ballad Of The Totems
My father was Noonuccal man and kept old tribal way,His totem was the Carpet Snake, whom none must ever slay;
But mother was of Peewee clan, and loudly she expressed
The daring view that carpet snakes were nothing but a pest.
Now one lived inside with us in full immunity,
For no one dared to interfere with father’s stern decree:
A mighty fellow ten feet long, and as we lay in bed
We kids could watch him round a beam not far above our head.
Only the dog was scared of him, we’d hear its whines and growls,
But mother fiercely hated him because he took her fowls.
You should have heard her diatribes that flowed in angry torrents,
With words you’d never see in print, except in D.H. Lawrence.
“I kill that robber,” she would scream, fierce as a spotted cat;
“You see that bulge inside of him? My speckly hen make that!”
But father’s loud and strict command made even mother quake;
I think he’d sooner kill a man than kill a carpet snake.
That reptile was a greedy guts, and as each bulge digested
He’d come down on the hunt at night, as appetite suggested.
We heard his stealthy slithering sound across the earthen floor,
While the dog gave a startled yelp and bolted out the door.
Then over in the chicken-yard hysterical fowls gave tongue,
Loud frantic squawks accompanied by the barking of the mung,
Until at last the racket passed, and then to solve the riddle,
Next morning he was back up there with a new bulge in his middle.
When father died we wailed and cried, our grief was deep and sore,
And strange to say from that sad day the snake was seen no more.
The wise old men explained to us: “It was his tribal brother,
And that is why it done a guy” – but some looked hard at mother.
She seemed to have a secret smile, her eyes were smug and wary,
She looked about as innocent as the cat that ate the pet canary.
We never knew, but anyhow (to end this tragic rhyme)
I think we all had snake for tea one day about that time.
Understand Old One
What if you came back nowTo our new world, the city roaring
There on the old peaceful camping place
Of your red fires along the quiet water,
How you would wonder
At towering stone gunyas high in air
Immense, incredible;
Planes in the sky over, swarms of cars
Like things frantic in flight.
Conclusion:
Oodgeroo Noonuccal remains a beacon of strength, creativity, and cultural resilience. Through every verse, she celebrated her ancient heritage and challenged injustice with unwavering dignity. Her poetry was not merely art — it was a courageous call for understanding, equality, and pride in Indigenous identity. Even today, her voice continues to inspire new generations to honour their roots and stand tall in the face of adversity. In remembering Oodgeroo, we remember the power of words to heal, awaken, and transform. She was, and forever will be, a true warrior of the pen.
