When White Australia set out to do something, it never did it by halves, and the organic and meaningful development of a national sentiment and national mythology was something that we just knew how to do. In the decades leading up to federation, a lot of people put a lot of effort into something incredibly important, and which most of those fruity European nations took hundreds of years to manage (and the jury’s out on whether they did it well). Two successive world wars put a stop to that, striking a deep malaise into the Australian people and serving as the leverage point for humanist, internationalist thought to start burrowing its way into another country in which it’s not wanted. Despite all that we held out extraordinarily compared to most others, considering that the last elements of the White Australia legislation were only torn up on the cusp of the seventies, when the U.S. was already thinking of ways to make miscegenation look cool and hip. The Jewish foreign media push coupled with the spiritual frailty of the baby boomers ensured the crib death of over a century of cultural development, and today the word ‘nation’ itself is now intensely programmed to inspire visceral fear.

This, then, is a sort of eulogy for something killed by Jews, but also a look back at what we did right and how we might do it right again.

The early poetry of the continent followed the same traditions as the island they came from, but it’s still worth looking at because you can clearly sense new ideas forming that were, if not in opposition to, clearly distinct from the British Empire. Charles Harpur, a son of convicts, was one of the best contributors to Australian poetry throughout the mid-1800s, and The Emigrant’s Vision, while unfortunately egalitarian (as much of Australian poetry naively was), has a sense of national identity separate from just being a pom:

“O stranger!” she said, “hast thou fled from the home”

Which they forefathers bled for so vainly?

And even a bit of cheeky republicanism, it seems:

And the God they adore their sole monarch shall be -

Then come, build thy home in Australia!

Influenced by Harpur, Henry Kendall would also begin to write, and his work evokes the landscape and rural scene, like in The Wild Kangaroo:

Beyond the wide rents of the fog, The trees are illumined with gold; And the bark of the shepherd’s brave dog Shoots away from the sheltering fold

Stories of larger-than-life figures of the bush, cities and towns alike would show up in poems like Bill the Bullock Driver:

What trouble has Bill for the ruin of lands,

Or the quarrels of temple and throne,

So long as the whip that he holds in his hands

And the team that he dries are his own?

A total disregard for class consciousness; if Bill had any sense he’d be joining the COMINTERN.

Poor bullock Bill! In the circles select

Of the scholars he hasn’t a place;

But he walks like a man, with his forehead erect,

And he looks at God’s day in the face.

Sounds like Australia of yesteryear was toxically masculine. I wonder if there’s a statue of this man we can tear down to settle the score?

As time went on, these figures of the formative colonial period of Australian culture (who are joined by painters like William Strutt) died off, and a new age formed. The internal culture of Australia’s people – what they’d been striving for, their experiences and legends, the places in which they lived and all the little idiosyncrasies of their lives – had been bolstered. People knew who they were, how they talked to each other. Race didn’t have to be emphasised because at this point they were still functioning human beings (i.e. neither French nor encumbered with a significant Jewish diaspora) and because a homogeneous population rarely needs to focus on it.

At that point, Chinese workers, or ‘indentured laborers’ as Wikipedia thinks, had been entering the country for quite a while, and their numbers peaked during the gold rush. As in most things, the eternal Anglo was unfortunately complicit – the British, still in control of key decision making before federation, were careful not to upset the Qing and forced the Aussies to take their fair share of economic migrants, and the result were the Lambing Flat and Buckland riots, which hardly needs going over, and was followed by legislation to try to keep them out. From that point on, Australia had an external sense of culture, which developed into strong, explicit national sentiment, which first lead to true federation – and a safer distance between us and Jews – and a true blooming of our country’s poetry. George Essex Evans in The Nation Builders puts it well:

A handful of workers seeking the star of a strong intent -

A handful of heroes scattered to conquer a continent -

Thirst, and fever, and famine, drought, and ruin, and flood,

And the bones that bleach on the sandhill, and the spears that redden with blood;

And the pitiless might of the molten skies, at noon, on the sun-cracked plain,

And the walls of the northern jungles, shall front them ever in vain,

Till the land that lies like a giant asleep shall wake to the victory won,

And the hearts of the Nation Builders shall know that the work is done.

This was a time before we were more enlightened and realised that building things and conquering things was bad.

I’d get a hiding for not bringing up Paterson, but he deserves more than a quote – if you haven’t, read The Man From Snowy River.

Magazines like The Bulletin were filled with such work, and literary periodicals like The Antipodean (edited by Evans and co-edited by Banjo Paterson himself) would brim with all the passion and thought of a brand new country preparing to take its first steps – and we couldn’t have that, could we, Goy?

It’s here that we catch up with the modern era proper, and the precipitous fall of Australia’s culture is so disappointing that it’s best told as rapidly – the first and second world wars drained us of good men, international communism and Jewry truly began its work (by the likes of Vida Goldstein and Egon Kisch) to make sure Australian culture died in its golden years, and those aforementioned naïve threads of egalitarianism were pulled as hard as they’d give. White Australia was mutilated over a process of decades, almost always without popular support, and academia was infiltrated so successfully that open communists occupy key positions in most major universities.

Let’s have a look at what poetry is like today now that we’re diversified and multicultural! Ali Alizadeh, an Iranian Marxist who teaches Australian literature, produces this tear-jerker, Culture and Its Terrors. I checked, he’s won awards.

Similes, nature analogies, never

so apt to term the pitfalls, assaults upon

The soul’s integrity. Imagine

sinking into depths deadlier than swamps

Twisting through the spiral

of angry, lacerating waves. Yes, water

Absolutely the right metaphor. Element

of emotion, sucking the body down a well… .

Let’s speed along a bit.

… . of the tornado of your ‘dominant culture’. Maybe

sandstorm would be more adequate. Your

nationalism, allegiance fetish

threaten to bury uniqueness with the sands

of stifling self-satisfaction. I’ve seen you

wave your garish flag, grunting anthems

There’s definitely too much to lay out in an article if you want to spare words, but it goes on like that. The scourge of free verse is a good example of how the slippery slope works in many other cultural and artistic spheres – relax standards hoping for exceptional experimentation, and instead you only ever get mouth-breathing sub-humans who think that a line break in the middle of nowhere will make whatever they wrote more poignant. Having decided that beauty, meter, lyricism or even syntax was unnecessary in the new zeitgeist, new substances filled the vacuum to make up for aesthetics. For example, we were given progressive poetry, where anybody with some chip on their shoulder and the right sort of identity politics will be guaranteed popularity - Lionel Fogarty, Gwen Harwood, Judith Wright, Oodgeroo Noonuccal, Dorothy Hewett come to mind, and they’re just the ones I haven’t managed to properly suppress. To get an understanding of what we’re looking at here, take one last excerpt, from Gwen Harwood’s ‘In The Park’

They stand a while in flicking light, rehearsing

the children’s names and birthdays. “It’s so sweet

to hear their chatter, watch them grow and thrive,”

she says to his departing smile. Then, nursing

the youngest child, sits staring at her feet.

To the wind she says, “They have eaten me alive.”

We are ruled now by an inverted morality where a natural and young nationalist sentiment has been suppressed forcibly, and it is a suppression that takes a large amount of effort to maintain. People must be kept in positions of perceived authority (when there is truly none) in universities so that broken ideas can be pushed against the gradient of reality, and money must be conjured up and burned at alarming rates to sustain the poisoning of the ideas what was once a spiritually healthy ethnicity. Globalism works as a mallet against anything meaningfully Australian rising up spontaneously, as it finds itself lost in a world where everything is linked and inherently without relevance – cultural or racial – to the person consuming it, and where the least quality has the most influence behind it.

Things do look dire, and it’s easier to break things than to fix them, but we’ll win because we’re fighting to create something even more beautiful than what was before.

I’ll leave you with a recital of Black to the Future, by Maxime Banks, promoted by Melbourne Fringe festival 2016 and Bank Australia.