Encore Presentation

 Neil Creighton 

 

 Bundjalung Children 1907

 

 By Neil Creighton

I have recently completed a manuscript called “My Blood’s Country” and I am thrilled that it has been accepted for publication by Kelsay Books. It is a narrative in seven parts and for Storyteller Poetry Review I have selected five poems from four of those parts. 

The characters in this book are based on real people. Likewise, the events and chronology are accurate to the best of my knowledge. The central characters, William and Magdalen Yabsley, are my great-great grandparents. However, this is not a history book. It is a poetic re-imagining of the red cedar exploitation, colonialism and the struggles and achievements of various selected characters. 

Colonialism is a complex subject with complex and difficult outcomes, especially for indigenous people. I wanted to explore this complexity but for this selection I can only include one poem. In the book I have taken particular care to accurately depict the massacres of First Nation people in the Clarence and Richmond River valleys and the historical process under which they suffered. At the same time, I have been careful not to tell their stories, for which I have neither permission nor sufficient knowledge. I have concentrated on where the colonial and indigenous cultures intersect. These are shared stories and should be more widely known. 

The title of the book is taken from a poem by the Australian poet Judith Wright, which begins

South of my days' circle, part of my blood's country,
rises that tableland, high delicate outline
of bony slopes wincing under the winter

The Clarence and Richmond River valleys are north of the circle of my days but are part of my blood’s country. My ancestors were colonial pioneers and it is the region of my birth. In my choice of title I acknowledge the excellence and appropriateness of Judith Wright’s phrase. 

From Part 1 William 

Desertion

The warm water embraced him, 
caressed him with a promise of freedom. 
The tide swept him away, leaving behind 
the darkly silhouetted ship 
reeking with a stench of class, 
the hopeless imprisonment
of status locked in by birth.

Above him the southern stars shone 
with what he imagined was hope. 
A few lights flickered in the sleeping town. 
The current carried him close 
to a small sandy beach bracketed 
by jutting outcrops of sandstone. 
He struck out for the shore,
gasping but buoyed by hope. 
When his feet touched solid ground, 
he waded ashore and collapsed. 

He turned onto his back and listened. 
The gentle rhythmic lap of water
matched his surging burst of optimism. 
What was that music? 
Was it the land singing to him?

Here in this new land, 
you will survive, you will thrive. 
You will rescue Marnie and Jane from poverty.
Here you will be free.

Then he knew that in this country, 
far from the stifling strictures 
imposed by birthplace 
was his changed destiny. 
He would break free.

 

 Magdalen and her daughters

From Part 2 Magdalen 

A Letter 

Songs of the sea rolled through Portsmouth,
drifted ashore on brisk sea breeze or dank mist   
and meandered through narrow streets: 
melodies of sailors coming and going,  
laments of families left, of harsh necessity 
driving men to board ships for foreign lands, 
ditties of poverty, abandonment and loneliness,
songs of women whose husbands were at sea 
and for whom hope and expectation 
were luxuries not to be entertained. 

Such a one was Magdalen. 
She carried brief moments of grief 
for her three lost children but the sad song 
of acceptance led her through each day. 
She shared a single room with her daughter, Jane.
She had not seen her husband for eighteen months.
Nature and necessity had nurtured in her 
the steel of resolve and the discipline of fortitude. 
Letters came from William from she knew not where 
and when another arrived, she sat 
and opened it with quiet pleasure. 

Dear Marnie, 

I have left the ship. 
I am in New South Wales. 
I can’t stay in Sydney Town. 
I’ll be arrested if I do.
But Marnie, there are opportunities here. 
I’m going timber getting.
There’s red cedar everywhere.
We can make a life for ourselves. 
Come when you can. 

Her heart pounded. 
She pulled Jane close.
He’d left the ship. 
New South Wales. 
The place they sent convicts.
The other side of the world. 
Eight months of sailing. 
What would she have to do to leave?
What lay waiting in that foreign land?

She looked around the room. 
She thought of the three children she had lost. 
She thought of her parents, especially her mother. 
If she left, she may never see her again.
She thought of the isolation of her life, 
the brief moments spent with her husband 
before he of necessity went again to sea. 
She thought of how clever he was, 
how well he read and how skilled he was with his tools. 
She heard his voice saying
 
We can make a life for ourselves. 
Come when you can. 
 
Thoughtful and contemplative, 
she always took time to make her decision
but when she did her resolve was unshakable. 
She would say goodbye to all her old familiarities. 
She would gather her courage and leave. 
Come what may, she would follow him to the new world.


Sydney Town

Alien the imposing sandstone cliffs,  
silent sentinels to a beautiful harbor. 
Alien the harbor’s dress, a clear bright blue
fringed with a chaotic tangle of dull green, 
strange branches twisting and tangling. 
Alien their sparse and scattered leaves. 
Alien the splashes of multi-colored birds
bright with red, blue, orange and green,
wheeling and flocking in cloudless sky. 
Alien the eucalypt saturated air. 
Alien the heavy January heat. 
Alien the town, its curious mixture 
of shack-filled winding streets 
and grand sandstone public buildings. 
Alien the workers on the dock 
regarding her with strange disinterest. 

No Missus, we don’t know him. 
You think he’s cutting cedar. 
Most probably up north on the Big River. 
They’re cutting red cedar up there.
How far away is that? Long way. 
Beyond the permitted boundaries.
At least 400 miles, I reckon.

Alien the place may be as she stood 
on the dock and holding Jane’s hand. 
Familiar though was her rock of resolve. 
Familiar too was the steel of determination
that set her jaw when she made up her mind.
Familiar too were her resourcefulness, 
the calm order of her intellect
and the enormous strength of her character.
She had not come all this way for nothing. 
First, she must find somewhere for Jane. 
Then she would make enquiries. 
Someone must know something of him. 
She knew he was trustworthy
and he had sent for her.
Come what may, she would search 
until she found his familiar and loved face. 


From Part 3 The Dispossessed

Bora Ring 

The Bora Ring is empty. 
The songs of ceremony are gone. 
Young men are no longer 
led here for initiation. 
The ancient music is silent. 
Fences now crisscross the land. 

Ships no longer sail the rivers, 
Cargoes of cedar are no more.
Pioneer towns stand empty. 
The ship building sheds are gone. 
Cars speed on bitumen roads. 
The present swallows the past. 

Everything changes. 
The river sweeps to sea.  
In the myriad of past events 
few stay fixed in memory, 
They are a complex current
to inform the fragile present. 
  
New ways of belonging grow. 
New generations find new songs. 
New rhythms resound 
as the fleeting present is swept 
into an unknowable future,  
that constantly changing tomorrow. 

Yet still anguished cries of lament rise
for violence inflicted on the innocent, 
for the deep trauma of children 
cruelly stolen from grieving parents,  
for the horror of dislocation from country,  
for the Bora Rings standing empty, 
for ancient songs now silent. 


From Part 6 Last Days

Eulogy for William

For this final vision, where shall I place you? 
Shall I put you onboard one of your many ships: 
Pelican, Coraki, Schoolboy, Examiner, 
Clarence, Providence, Index or Beagle?
Will you be in your great shipbuilding shed, 
walking among the men and apprentices, 
supervising the construction of another ship?  
Are you walking on one of your properties, 
examining your growing herd?
Is it in younger times, sweating and urging 
your bullocks to drag huge cedar trunks 
through the tangled scrub at Big River?
Or shall I choose that moment of triumph, 
when against the odds you hauled the Examiner 
from the beach near the mouth of the Big River, 
saving her from the pounding sea? 

None of these places seem right 
for your last setting, this final glimpse 
into the very essence of you.
Let me place you in your workshop, 
wood shavings and sawdust on the floor,  
timber stacked around you.  
It is nearly dark but still you work on.
You have been weeks in a labor of love, 
sawing, planning, jointing, glueing. 
You are almost finished.
You are making chairs for Coraki’s first school.

You hold up the last chair and examine it. 
It is well made and you are pleased. 
You smile to yourself at the thought 
of all those little ones, some your descendants, 
sitting on these chairs to engage 
in what you have so deeply loved, 
the joy and liberation of learning. 

Put down the chair, stand and walk for the broom.
You are weary but the work is not completed 
until the workshop is swept and clean.  
Tomorrow you will take the chairs to the school. 
Generations will reap from your bountiful legacy. 

Finish sweeping, William. 
Open the door and pause for a moment. 
Your legacy is more profound than chairs, 
ships, properties or material inheritance. 
Not all your descendants will be builders or graziers. 
Amongst your descendants will be 
multiple scores who love learning 
and whose delight is in sharing knowledge. 
This, William, is one of your great legacies.
This cluster of chairs represents that. 
In them is your concern for others
and your love for children and learning. 

Now walk away.  
You are growing old. 
It has been a long day. 
Somewhere in the near future 
is an overturned boat, 
a tumble of overladen cargo, 
water rushing to meet you, 
a struggle for breath 
and then deep darkness, 
but for now, it has been a job well done, 
a life well lived, 
William, 
Master Mariner, 
great teacher of Coraki.