Storyteller and Book of the Week

 Neil Creighton and The Colquhoun Chronicles (Kelsay 2023)

  

 Neil Creighton lives with his wife, Diana, on a small rural property in Wilberforce, a historical village northwest of Sydney, Australia.

He is a teacher of English and Drama. Family is a great love. Other loves include bushwalking, bicycles and buddies.

He has been widely published, both online and in hard copy in places such as “Poets Reading the News”, “Peacock Journal”, “Autumn Sky Daily” “New Verse News”, “Prosopisia” and “The Second Genesis”.

His published works are “Earth Music” (Praxis), “Loving Leah” (Kelsay), “Awakening” (Cyberwit), “Rock Dreaming” (Kelsay) and “Morteza” (Kelsay). He is a Contributing Editor at “Verse-Virtual”, an online poetry journal.

 

 Review by Sharon Waller Knutson

Usually I do a storyteller feature first to introduce the poet and then review the book but after reading The Colquhoun Chronicles I realized Neil was not the typical poet and this wasn’t your typical poetry book.

I was so impressed by the story that I decided to combine the two features and concentrate on Neil’s masterful storytelling in the book to show that he epitomizes the word storyteller.

Rather than a collection of poems, The Colquhoun Chronicles reads like a Homer or Hemmingway novel as Neil’s hero begins his quest to find his long lost daughter.

As skillful as a novelist, Neil develops characters and spins a believable adventure story that kept me on the edge of my seat with its twists and turns. The description is so vivid, Neil transports me to the island and the story touches my heart.

Like a good novelist, Neil begins the book by introducing his main characters and setting up the plot.

Part I Quest 

Colquhoun

When Colquhoun walked his island
the ocean sung to him, wind made melody,
tree branches gently rocked and swayed
and clear water from running creek gurgled.
Songs of joy arose inside Colquhoun.
His whole world was glorious and bright.

If, from across the sea, on the numerous islands
that dotted the archipelago, came news
of frequent boom of gun or cloud of smoke,
or distant cries of afflicted women and children,  
or the angry shouting of male voices,
or theft, murder and rampaging mobs,
what had that to do with him?  
Occasionally, floating with the tide,
came a reeking stench of horror,
a reminder of the world across the sea.
Colquhoun towed it out beyond his island
and let the tide take it far away.

They were the oppressions of other islands.
They were happening to other people.

Besides, what could he do?  


Miriam

Colquhoun walked his island oblivious
to the spinning world and shift of time.
Buds became blossoms, then fruit,
then falling leaves and bare branches
but Colquhoun sung his island songs,
unaware that Miriam, his only child,
was growing from child to woman.
He was ignorant of her changing needs.
If she grew peevish, unhappy and restless,
he put it down to issues of the moment,
but Miriam wandered to the headland,   
watched the ceaseless tide and screeching gulls
and stared longingly across the sea.

When she was seventeen a man sailed to their island,
a man different to meditative Colquhoun:
gruff, non-verbal, not interested in beauty,
but hard, muscular and young.
Miriam looked at him and loved him
and he took her from the island.

Then Colquhoun, who all his life
had been pre-occupied with his own joy,
returned to his walking and island songs,
but there was an emptiness in his music,
a sadness he tried to shake off.
 
Miriam had gone, he knew not where.


Elizabeth

Elizabeth stood silently on the beach
and watched as he rowed out past the breakers.
Through tears she saw him climb on board,
raise his sail, set course for the nearest island
and disappear behind the headland.

She turned and walked to her home.
Her heart was filled and feet were heavy.
Her shoulders, usually so straight, slumped.
A shocked numbness consumed her.
Bleakness replaced beauty
and dark thoughts would not let go.

Would he find Miriam?
Would he bring her home?
Would she want to come?
Would she ever see Colquhoun again?

In Part 11, Neil uses haibun, a Japanese prose/poetry form, to tell the story from the point of view of the daughter.
 
Longing

I wander our island. I hate it. I am jealous of it. The sea rolls in and kisses the sand. The wind moves over the water and caresses the land. Birds sing morning anthems, each to each. Fields fill with the murmur of bees. Streams rush to meet the sea. Schools of fish in unison turn in silver flash. Light dissolves in the clear water or touches leaves in sun-drenched sparkle. 

But I am alone.

All I see are the ancient, doddery couple who work for my parents, the old man who brings supplies by boat and the middle aged guests who come to the B & B, gushing about “paradise”.

I hate them too.

I hate their age.

I hate their stout greyness.

I hate their tepid lives, their terrible clothes, their faux happiness.

I am seventeen.

I want to scream. I want to fly. I want to fling myself headlong into life.

I want to escape this island, my prison.

in the coffin earth
the seed, yearning for life, must
climb towards the light


Tony

He comes across the sea, young, tanned and muscular. I see him and catch my breath. He’s coarse. His speech is limited. He’s not at all like my father. I love all of that.

I notice him looking at me. Flattery and desire lift me and sweep me along. I sing with joy. I skip when I hear him approaching. He is funny, laughs a lot, makes jokes, brings me flowers. I can’t stop thinking about him. I surrender to him, completely.

But he has seen my neediness and lusts to exploit it.

hidden in lush grass
beneath the perfumed flowers,
the serpent’s tongue flicks
 

Escape

It is night.

I am breathless with excitement.
 
His kiss is long, deep and passionate, his body hard against mine.

Then he lets go and holding my hand he picks up my suitcase and together we run. I am barefooted. My feet make a squeaking noise in the fine white sand. My heart is going crazy. We run along the jetty, leap into his boat and cast off. In the night the motor sounds unnaturally loud. I am fearful my parents will hear it but we move through the sheltered water, past the headland and out to sea into a large swell.


No one follows.

I look at him and laugh. The night is brilliant with stars. The whole world lies before me. Tony increases the engine speed. The prow lifts as the boat surges, moving up each large swell and thumping down the other side. It is wild and rough. I hold on tight. The spray is soaking me, but I don’t mind.

The night is singing.

And so am I.

I have escaped.

to open its wings
the chrysalis struggles free
from its tight cocoon

 
Degree by Degree

It doesn’t happen overnight. It shifts, degree by degree, as he gains more confidence in his control. Always, though, there are the moments that stand out.

One day when he comes home, he doesn’t embrace me. He barely speaks. He avoids my eyes. He runs his forefinger over an architrave, looks at it and grunts. He walks to the pantry and opens the door. He is silent, looking around. Then he turns to me.

“Geez, it’s a fucken pigsty in here. Doan’cha ever fucken clean?”

I catch my breath. My mouth opens. I taste my fear. Have I seen this coming?

I am his canvas--  
he owns the brushes and paint--
he splashes where he wills--

The suspense mounts as the daughter’s marriage falls apart and her father fights the elements to reach his daughter and we wonder if the father will complete his quest.

Read the book to find out.

https://www.amazon.com/Colquhoun-Chronicles-Neil-Creighton/dp/163980319X