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This poem was published at The Bees Are Dead in October 2018

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Fallen Tree

This poem was first published at Verse-Virtual with the following introduction.

The treatment of First Australians is a deeply shameful. It’s impossible to rank the various crimes but what has become known as “The Stolen Generation”, the subject of my poem, is high on the list. Between 1910 and 1970, under an act of parliament, aboriginal children were forcibly removed from their homes and placed in various institutions. Estimates of how many children were stolen vary from 20,000 to 100,000. After years of resistance from conservative politicians, in 2008 the Labor Prime Minister, Kevin Rudd, made an apology to the Stolen Generations one of his first official acts. Perhaps it is a small step forward, but there are many others that still need to be taken. 

Fallen Trees.

I.

Hidden by reeds higher than my head,

a huge old gum tree had long ago

released its grip in the boggy ground

and fallen across the narrow swamp.

Now, every morning, my way 

to the two-roomed weatherboard school 

bypassed the mundanity of the road.

I ran freely through the bush,

past the smooth, pink barked angophoras,

down weathered sandstone outcrops

and over my secret bridge.

I was maybe nine or ten.

II.

At school we learnt about indigenous people.

Aboriginal people didn’t own land.

Aboriginal people offered 

no resistance to colonisers.

Aboriginal people lived 

a life of hunting and gathering.

Aboriginal people dwelt 

in temporary bark huts called gunyas.

All wrong, the myths of conquerors,

but the most wrong of all was this:

Aboriginality could be totally bred out

in just three generations.

Then assimilation would be complete.

III.

There were no brown faces in our school.

Later, much later, I found out why.

For sixty years aboriginal children,

as a matter of government policy,

were kidnapped from their homes.

I ran free through the bush.

They were stolen on dusty roads

or on their way to school.

I day-dreamed in class.

They were denied an education

and trained to be domestic “servants”.

I ran home in full assurance

that my parents were there.

Their parents were turned away

from locked gates, many 

never to see their children again.

I suffered occasional punishment

They were locked in solitary confinement.

I received security and love.

They were denied affection,

beaten and sexually abused.

IV.

There is no making amends.

Some things can never be made right.

When those first boats

sailed through the narrow heads

and dropped their anchors in alien water,

their cargoes were not just filled 

with England’s unwanted

but with the grief and ugliness 

of colonisation and dispossession 

and all its concomitant, 

self-justifying myth making.

Those old myths I learnt 

as a child were not sustainable.

They grew in boggy ground.

They had to eventually fall.

What can come from their falling? 

Could it be verities strong enough 

to bridge myth’s thick, matted reeds

and history’s stagnant swamp?

Where is that place where all children 

can run freely through the bush,

past smooth, pink barked angophoras,

down weathered sandstone outcrops

to walk together over our shared tree?

Beryl’s Story.

This poem was first published at Praxismagonline with all the following acknowledgments.

Beryl’s Story

for all children of the Stolen Generation, and in particular for Faye Moseley and Doreen Webster, whose experiences in the Cootamundra Girls Training Home are depicted (with permission) in this poem

I was only ten when they took me.
My brothers and sisters too.
We were walking to school.
First thing they cut my plaits clean off.
Didn’t even bother unplaiting them.
Took my clothes and got rid of them too.
That was the end of school for me.
They said they were training us
to be domestic servants.
More like slaves really.

There was lots of abuse.
Sexual, too.
From the staff, you know.
There was also a tiny place
we called the morgue.
They’d lock you there
if you misbehaved
or tried to run away.
Nobody ever loved us.
Nobody cuddled us.
Nobody praised us.

When they took us
Mum and Dad were at work
at the cannery in Leeton.
They told us Mum and Dad didn’t want us.
Said they didn’t love us any more.
That wasn’t true.
Mum and Dad had a letter
from the Aborigines Welfare Board
saying we were well looked after.
Didn’t make any difference.
I found out later Mum and Dad
tried to visit Coota heaps of times.
They weren’t allowed in the gate.
Dad couldn’t cope.
He took off driving trucks.
Years later at Mum’s funeral
this bloke asks me my name.
“It’s Beryl”, I say.
He says, “I’m your Dad.”

They’re still taking our kids,
locking them up,
building more and more jails.
First inmates are always aborigines.
This is what the Stolen Generation
has done to us,
to our kids,
to our communities.

The Stolen Generation: Between 1910 and 1970, under an act of the Australian parliament, aboriginal children could be forcibly removed from their homes and placed in various institutions. Estimates of how many children were stolen vary from 20,000 to 100,000. These children became known as “The Stolen Generation”. After years of resistance from conservative politicians, in 2008, nearly 100 years after the first child was taken, the Labor Prime Minister, Kevin Rudd, made an apology to the Stolen Generations one of his first official acts.

Editor’s Note: Neil Creighton is a frequent contributor to Praxis Magazine Online, and we are grateful to be able to offer you another of his insightful poems regarding the ongoing impact of colonialization. (He also has a poem on The Stolen Generation at Verse-Virtual.) Neil Creighton and the editorial team at Praxis Magazine Online would like to thank The Healing Foundation for their assistance in obtaining permission for the author to tell this story in poetry, and for Praxis Magazine Online to publish it and make it available to our readers.

The Alchemists.

This poem was written after seeing Persian bas-reliefs in Le Louvre and was first published in The Ekphrastic review.

The Alchemists.

Owen’s alchemy never produced

the fool’s gold of glory on battlefield

but from the mud-burdened trudge

of men moving beyond exhaustion 

as they passed a bare, pock-marked,

death-filled, barbed-wire strung world

he wrenched a pure and shocking gold of truth.

Ancient Persian artisans performed 

a different kind of alchemy.

Gone are sièges of noise, blood, death,

broken walls and burning cities,

bodies impaled outside the walls,

boastful Kings commissioning bas-reliefs,

walled cities and palaces, 

courts, officials, culture and conquest.

What remains is alchemist’s gold,

exquisite bricks glazed 

in brown, bone, ochre and aqua,

depictions of warriors,

archers with coiffed beards,

abundant quivers and resplendent garments

standing erect with their straight spears,

now on display in La Musée du Louvre 

millennia after he who commissioned them

has faded to forgotten dust

and most he gloried in

has long lain covered 

by the relentless detritus of time.

Three more for my Grandchildren

These poems were published in October Verse-Virtual.

James, Astronomer.

For James Creighton.

He’s less than two

when his blue eyes light up 

with grand adventure.

He lifts off with a slight wobble

and an air of determination.

Soon he is waylaid by flowers,

freesias, cream-coloured 

and heavy with scent.

“Stars,” he says,

bending down his little nose.

Then he’s off again 

to undiscovered galaxies

between the orange globed fruit trees

and the prickly melaleuca hedge.

Soon he is negotiating

an asteroid-littered way

behind the henhouse 

inhabited by clucking aliens.

Finally he returns

and sets down safely.

He has a look of triumph.

Mission accomplished.

And why not?

He’s just traversed the universe.

Captain Baby Man.

For Max Wolfe Creighton.

I.

Captain Baby Man, 

you wave your little arms,

smile and laugh, 

make sweet sounds.

The circle of your world 

is growing out beyond 

mother’s breast 

and the warmth of touch.

A wider world is registering:

bird song, love, forest light, 

tears, water’s sparkle, joy, grief.

Grasp it, not recklessly, 

but richly, deeply, wonderfully,

dear, sweet, little 

Captain Baby Man.

II.

Captain Baby Man, rise on imagination’s wings

high above dull, mundane, fettered things;

roll, glide and play in realms of joy,

touch hearts, bring happiness, be a wonderful boy;

let dullness and stupidity be things you abhor

as, Captain Baby Man, you rise, glide and soar.

Hush.

For Eleanor Miette Creighton.

Hush, tread quietly and don’t disturb

for here is a moment to always treasure.

Eleanor Miette, though she’s less than one

is looking at books and chatting with pleasure.

Hush, tread quietly and softly retreat,

tiptoe so gently from this place.

Who for a moment would ever disturb

the look of pure joy all over her face.

Hush, tread quietly and don’t disturb,

yet linger a moment for one last little look,

for this little girl, though she’s less than one

is lost in the world of a wonderful book.

Three for my grandchildren

These poems about three of my grandchildren were published in Verse-Virtual in December, 2018.

Bella

- for Bella McDonald

She kneels 

amongst the strawberries,

sunshine in her hair.

“I can do it Pa.”

Her little hand takes the plant

and parts the rich earth.

She snuggles in close.

Her arms encircle my neck.

I feel her eyes shine.

Ten thousand thousand

small, miraculous moments 

fill my heart with joy.

First published at Peacock Journal

Emmanuel.

- for Emmanuel Creighton.

I.

Emmanuel is Born.

Little Emmanuel, 

asleep in your cradle,

milennia ago a prophet 

wrote of a Prince of Peace

whose counsel was wonderful,

whose just reign would never cease,

whose wisdom and understanding 

was such that it seemed as if God 

dwelt in this frail and human world. 

The prophet named him Emmanuel,

“God with us.” 

What then would I have for you

who carry greatness in your name?

Not ease, for strength and power

comes through adversity overcome.

Nor great wealth, for true riches 

never lie in the deceptive glitter of things.

I would have you grow daily in mind

until in judgment you are wise and just

and in disposition gentle and kind.

Desire them, search for them,

for in them are the essence 

of your great name,

little Emmanuel. 

II.

Emmanuel at Five.

You leap and land

surely and lightly.

Your little arms thrust out.

“Body weight,” you say.

You take a ninja stance.

You swirl your plastic sword

in patterns above your head.

“Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!”

You are waging the war 

of good and evil.

Go forth, little warrior.

Fight the darkness.

There’s plenty around.

We need your light.

Shine it, live it, be it,

little Emmanuel.

.

Wake Up, Little Man.

- For Jett McDonald, 

when he was about 20 months.

Wake up, little man,

there’s exploring to be done.

That pile of dirt in the distance

is Everest’s foothill, the narrow gap 

between the post and gate

is where a crevice dangerously winds,

but here she comes to take you away,

saying it’s too dangerous to climb today.

Later there are prizes to be won

if you can open the door

and scurry off up the hill 

to wealth beyond measure,

your Nanna’s fridge filled 

with things sweet to eat.

But she’s here again, kissing, 

murmuring about sleep,

saying it’s late, it’s time for bed,

promising tomorrow to lock

the doors of the shed.

Now snuggle in, little man, 

she’s wrapping you up tight,

giving you Elly the Elephant 

for company in the night.

Your eyes get heavy.

Your breathing goes quiet.

She looks at you and murmurs

“He’s so cute when he’s sleeping,

really, really lovely,” 

but we think, little man, 

that for all of your dream time

you’re finding sweet treasures 

and high mountains to climb.

.

Three poems for my grandchildren

These three poems for children were first published in Verse-Virtual in January, 2019.

Learning to Walk.

- For my grandchildren.

Almost from when its life has begun

the baby antelope can gambol and run.

The same thing is true, of course,

of the very lovely baby horse.

The infant giraffe first kneels on its knees

then stands and runs with incredible ease.

A little monkey from a high, high branch

leaps out boldly without risk or chance.

A baby elephant weighs one tenth of a tonne

but soon walks beside its three tonne Mum.

The tiny elver, it would seem,

can very easily swim upstream.

All these babies can swim, stand or run

but humans don’t walk before they are one. 

For months they wave a leg or arm,

giggle, gurgle, cry and charm.

At four months they begin to roll,

alas! without very much control.

At eight months animals frolic without falling,

the very age when baby starts crawling.

Then she teeters, wobbles and finally stands.

Crack open the champers! Strike up the band!

Mum and Dad are proud and excited.

She, of course, is truly delighted

For what she sees beyond the door

is a thrilling world she must explore.

Yes, baby humans will walk at one.

Their grand adventure has begun.

Pets.

- For my grandchildren.

Some people have unusual pets-

a pig, a python, a fish or frog-

but none of them can ever compare

to the commonplace, marvellous dog.

You think she's dozing by the hearth

but she’s always got an eye on you.

She knows exactly how you’re feeling,

she knows exactly what to do.

When you are upset then she

will place her muzzle on your knee,

gaze at you with gentle eyes

and give you wonderful sympathy.

When you come home from school

her greeting makes a dull day bright.

Her ears go sleek, she'll bark with joy,

shake and wag in pure delight.

Can you take a python for a walk?

Is a frog a blind man’s guide?

Can a fish be taught to sit and stay?

Will a pig lie faithfully by your side?

For slithering snake the answer is no.

So too for fish, frog or grunting hog

but a friend and companion for all their short life

is the loving, loyal and wonderful dog.

The Plum Tree.

- For my grandchildren.

Look little ones,

the leaves have turned yellow,

the sky is pure blue,

the day mild and mellow.

Look little ones,

the tree is now bare,

there’s frost in the morning

and cold everywhere.

Look little ones,

there’s buds on the trees,

flowers are blossoming

and buzzing with bees.

Look little ones,

in this blossoming blooming

the cycle of life

is forever renewing.

   

”The Plum Tree”, by Brenda Creighton

Tree.

-written in 2015 for my friend, the great Nigerian poet, Ikeogu Oke, who died too young of pancreatic cancer in 2018.

Tree.

(for my friend, Ikeogu Oke, who died too young in 2018)

Although they spread deep and wide

from before measured history,

these ancient anchoring roots

are still the one great tree.

Although it towers, twists and turns,

is marked and scarred for all to see,

this changing, gnarled and mottled trunk

is still the one great tree.

Although some bend to touch the earth

whilst others soar in elegant beauty,

this vast spreading tangle of branches

is still the one great tree.

Although they blossom, bloom and droop

in cyclical, never-ending creativity,

these flowers, fruit and seed

are still the one great tree.

So too we who dream and love,

who share the common bond of humanity,

who have hearts, minds, hands and voice

are still the one great tree

Some branches may be full of thorns

but others grow in truth and poetry.

They raise their voice to sing

that we are all part of the one great tree

and in singing, rejoice,

in pureness of heart and simplicity,

across the deserts and mountains of this earth

that we are all part of the one great tree.

First published at praxismag online

Tapestry

Weaving.

The loom is quiet.

Its treadles are still.

The shuttles, once filled 

with sombre weft spools

of darkly shining silk,

are almost spent.

Silently I add new shuttles,

splice a brighter palate

for an open French door,

light, zephyr-lifted curtains,

transparent, silver, morning light,

rich complexity of sun

sparkling on myriad green

and the sense of birdsong.

Yes, there must be birdsong.

There must be joy.

Yet let me unroll the cloth roller

and look at you for one last time

as you shuffle along

your darkened corridor.

It is well before dawn.

Those visions of children

which so haunt your sleep

have woken you again.

Your stoop is not just 

the weight of years

but a heavier load of guilt

bearing relentlessly down.

Over and over again

come those terrible words:

“Whatever will people think of me?”

Too late for that now.

I re-roll the cloth.

I have grieved long enough.

Through the open door is blue sky.

But I will weave through 

every scene that remains

those little bits of glowing silk thread 

that depict the light of your eyes

and the gentleness of your smile.

I must also take one thread 

of dark sombre silk,

a sadly powerful reminder

of the tragedy and folly that comes 

when independence is surrendered,

when strength of body wanes

and the diminished spirit

grows vulnerable and weak.

I re-arrange the shuttles with spools

of shining blues and green

and splashes of gold and vermillion.

I put my foot to the treadle. 

With a clatter the parts move

and warp thread absorbs weft

and the tapestry moves on.

Let all your years of goodness

outweigh those final spools

of silent, secret surrender.

Now take your peace.

Dream no more.

Wring your hands no more.

Rest quietly.

Sleep easy.

I let you go.

Goodbye, dear one.

Goodbye.

Goodbye.

First published at Antiheroin chic