Jazz Money is a Wiradjuri poet and artist. This year, for the Sydney Writers’ Festival, Jazz curated and hosted a variety of events and performed on the opening night. In 2021, they published their first poetry collection, ‘how to make a basket.’ Their second poetry book, ‘mark the dawn,’ will be published in late August. Both books are recipients of significant awards, the 2020 David Unaipon Award and the 2024 UQP Quentin Bryce Award, respectively.
In August 2023, I attended a Writing NSW poetry workshop conducted by Jazz. I was extremely inspired by their poetic practice, particularly their warm and thoughtful way with words. Naturally, it felt like a very special opportunity to interview Jazz after their performance on the opening night. We discussed the Festival, writing about family and community stories and their upcoming book!
Date- Thursday, May 23, 2024
Location- Carriageworks Media Room
I wanted to discuss the Festival’s theme, ‘Take Me Away.’ At face value, that phrase can imply escapism, being taken out of reality. But your performance… including that last poem you wrote for the Festival, ‘The Loud Silence’… felt very grounded in reality and the political.
So, I wanted to ask about your take on the theme. How have you tried to speak to that in your performance and your role as a festival curator?
That’s a good question actually, I’m trying to think if I even took the theme into account when I was curating… I don’t know if I really resonate with the theme, to be honest. ‘Take Me Away’ feels a bit like a cop-out. The thing that I’m really interested in is here, and now, and our responsibilities, and our relationships. Our power as people with feet on the ground to be present. The idea of ‘Take Me Away’… I don’t want to be away; I want to be here. That’s how the theme lands with me.
I don’t mean to say that in a bratty or bitchy way. I guess I’m trying to reconcile those things, to actually think… how can that theme be adapted to mean place, mean something that feels resonant. How can ‘Take Me Away’ be interpreted as where are we going, what are we doing, and how are we going to get there together?
Besides your take on the theme, what has been important for you to show and share in your involvement in the Festival?
For me, the Festival felt like this recognition that you’ve got a platform, you’re fine. So, what am I going to do with that power? How am I going to disseminate the power? With the platform I’ve been given, what can I do with it that feels active and meaningful? To me, that was thinking of folk I really love in the literary world, who might not necessarily get these big stages or these audiences often. Or as often as they should. How can I bring interesting folk into conversation, into dialogue?
Also, I try and do things that feel a bit fresh and interesting. Writer’s Festivals… I guess I go to a lot of them. They can feel very formulaic. I was keen to try and do something that felt even slightly outside of that formula. So, having an event that’s outside. Having an event about Blak art’s criticism, which is something that I don’t think I’ve really seen. I have organized a poetry session which is very much like a standard poetry session, but it’s a shit hot lineup!
So, that was how I interpreted it… to try and really remove myself from the stage as much as possible and clear it for other folk.
On the opening night, Anne Patchett talked at length about her navigation of family stories, the ethics of writing about people you love, and putting their stories out there. So, I wanted to ask about your representation of the Wiradjuri community, as well as stories from other First Nations, queer and diverse communities. You’re putting yourself out there in your work, and by extension, a whole community.
How have you gone about this in your poetry and art? And maybe more importantly, what have you learned?
It’s a funny thing… when you have a lived experience from minority communities, you are so often seen as representing those communities. It’s weird because we don’t ask that of white people or straight people or able-bodied people or whatever it is. I’m really lucky to be writing and creating in a time where there is such an incredible strength of First Nations writers and Queer First Nations writers. I have really inherited a space that is safe, by and large. I feel that I am actually able to write… and it’s not me necessarily representing communities. I can just be me. It’s a real privilege. That definitely hasn’t been the case for many First Nations Writers who have come before me. Everyone is often seen to be representing. I feel really lucky about that.
There is that question alluding to Anne Patchett talking about her family. There is this tremendous amount of vulnerability with writing. The poetry that I write is often biographical or draws on an interior space. My friends and family are a part of that interior space. So, how to do that gracefully and respectfully? It’s the tension of writing so much of the time. How much do you pour out? Writing poetry… there’s a lot of pouring out from the self. I really take my writing and my art practice to be very much from my lens. But I’m constantly thinking about the political implications of what it is to make work. Writing or visual art or film, whatever it may be… how is it contributing? How is it complicating the story? Making the space feel richer? Drawing on the truths of this continent and the fact that it is not a European colonial outpost? It is a place that is so much better than that. How can I reveal the complexity that I see to audiences who might not necessarily have seen it that way before?
With thinking about the political implications of writing… is that something you do more now? Or have you done this all throughout your writing practice?
I can’t help it! When I first started writing poetry, it was really autobiographic and inward-facing. It was what I needed poetry to be at that time. I started writing because I was trying to process certain things. But once I started publishing, I was struck by a need for the words to do more. It felt quite self-indulgent to be writing poetry that was so introspective. I was like… fuck, if I’ve got a platform, even for a moment, I should try and do something with it. That’s a motivating element.
That doesn’t mean being super, overtly political. A lot of my writing is about love and joy and community and celebration. That might not seem inherently political to people at first, but when you come from communities that are so often represented in deficit… First Nations communities are so often represented as being less than the settler-colonial community. Queer communities are so often depicted as being hurt, harmed, less than, sick, shamed. To take the space to celebrate these intersecting, independent communities and say there is so much joy and abundance here… that to me is a political act. But maybe a surreptitious one.
I wanted to discuss how you used Wiradjuri language and First Nations terms in ‘how to make a basket.’ There isn’t a glossary defining Wiradjuri and First Nations terms in English, for English-speaking readers.
Did you consider including a glossary for these readers? What were your intentions in not including one?
That’s such a good question, thank you. I use the Wiradjuri language because it is real and true and so often captures the idea better than any English word could… to me, part of that is to not translate the language. It doesn’t need to be in relationship to English. It is maybe an arsehole thing to say because maybe it makes the language prohibitive for people to access. But I feel like the way that I used Wiradjuri in ‘how to make a basket’ was often tacitly translated. If you were actually reading the poem, you could put it together, you could understand what the idea was. To me, that’s more evocative and interesting.
Also, in publishing, it’s often encouraged that when you’re not using English, you italicize the word. To me, that was never an option because Wiradjuri should sit on the page with equal weight, if not greater weight, than English. To me, it just felt like representing who I am. I don’t speak Wiradjuri fluently, but I am a learner of the language and it is a beautiful language. So, it made sense to work with the languages that are part of my story and inheritance.
Not including a glossary… maybe it seemed sassy. But it felt matter-of-fact as well.
It’s also a matter of who this book is actually for…
Absolutely! What a treat for Wiradjuri speakers to not have to feel othered in the text, I think. It also invites greater learning. If you really want to know, Wiradjuri is a very accessible language. You can look it up. That’s cool — to invite people to do their own research, to think about the languages covering the entire span of this continent. These languages are of place. They are a true, deep thing that is in dialogue with Country, that Country can hear and return. So, let people experience that. Let people in by saying you’re also a part of this and you can also look it up and do your learning.
Your second book, ‘Mark the Dawn,’ will be coming out later this year. It has already won an award, the 2024 UQP Quentin Bryce Award. Congratulations!
Thank you so much!
Having already had the experience of writing and putting together a poetry book, how have you found writing and compiling your second book?
I found that my concerns were really different, which makes sense. But there was so much that was so unknown to me. With ‘How to Make a Basket,’ so much of that collection had been written without the expectation of publishing it. I was realising this as I was making the book to be published, which was quite a confronting thing to deal with.
In making ‘Mark the Dawn,’ I had a greater understanding of what it is to have a readership and a relationship with your audience. Also, how a book actually goes out into the world. It’s something that you just have to live through to know what it is. I so didn’t anticipate the things that were hard and fun and all the rest of having a book come out.
So, I feel more mentally prepared. But I’m sure there’ll be all sorts of things that come up that I haven’t anticipated. But one thing that feels quite different is… with ‘how to make a
basket,’ I was really writing for the page. I never performed poetry in the lead-up to that book coming out. Then, all of a sudden, people kept asking me to read poems from this book. I was like, I’ve never done this, these poems weren’t written for that purpose. They’re really for the page. They’re tricky in certain ways, they have certain word plays. They have certain ways of sitting on the page that I thought were really clever as I was writing it. But they don’t translate to a performance. I really feel like the sense of orality is a lot more present in ‘Mark the Dawn.’ It is a very tangible difference. The last few years of being someone who is writing with a sense of audience has played out in lots of different ways in the new book. But in a good way. Coming back to that idea of responsibility and the boredom of writing interiority… it’s also playing with that as well.
Well, I’m really looking forward to it!
Thank you!
Last week, you revealed the cover of ‘Mark the Dawn’ on Instagram. It’s really striking in colour and design. You’re also a visual artist… So, I was wondering, how were you involved in the design of the cover?
I’m lucky that at UQP, who I publish with, they let me have a lot of dialogue with the cover designer. I feel very involved. I felt very involved with ‘how to make a basket’ as well. Both those covers were designed by Jenna Lee, who is a fantastic First Nations visual artist and a friend. So, I feel super grateful. It is a very reciprocal relationship.
I found that image of the crack and was like… “I think something like this could be interesting.” We had a lot of back and forth about how that could play out. So, it is quite involved. I don’t think every writer is interested in doing that. But because I also have a visual practice, I was super involved… probably to the point of being really annoying! But everyone who humours me is very human about it. To the point that, when we did ‘how to make a basket,’ Jenna’s first question was “What’s your favourite colour?” I was like, I can’t believe I get to have that level of say! Then, when we came to this one, she’s like, “I know yellow’s your favourite colour, do you want to work with yellow again?” I was like, “how’d you know!”
So, it’s fun. You know when you’re too close to something as well and you can’t see if it’s any good? I’m glad you said you like it.
I do, I love it! That’s all my questions. Thank you so much, I’m so grateful.
Beautiful. No, thank you!
While our chat felt like a short one, it definitely left a lasting impression, a lasting mark. Jazz challenged our expectations of writers from marginalized communities. They revealed the empowerment they feel as a First Nations writer today and the deep ties between the personal and the political in their writing. I felt particularly inspired by their use of their platform and privilege to elevate marginalised writers and stories at the Sydney Writer’s Festival and beyond. Jazz reminds us of our responsibility as writers, readers, and people of this world — to actively look and learn, to challenge the desire to avert our eyes and entertain ignorance. As seen on the Festival’s opening night, their performance of their poetry was warm and captivating as well as political and resonant. From what Jazz tells us, you’ll soon be able to experience this sense of orality on the page. Preorder ‘Mark the Dawn’ here.
