The Boomerang in the Parlour
Will Webb, a farmer’s son from the cliffs of Gower,
Went as a young man to Australia, exchanging
The cramped peninsula for the outback, the frugal
Patchwork of fields for the prodigal spaces he rode
Along the rabbit-fence or under the soaring jarra.
When he came back, he brought with him a boomerang
For the front-room mantelpiece, a spearhead chipped by an abo
From the green glass of a beer-bottle, an emu-skin rug
And the poems of Banjo Patterson. To me, his son,
He looked for the completion of a journey
Stopped at Gallipoli, that in my turn. I’d see
The river of black swans. The map of Australia
Was tattooed on his right arm.
And so I have
Another, hypothetical, Australian self,
The might-have-been man of a clean, new, empty country
Where nearly all the songs have yet to be sung.
It is this shadow that perhaps has led me
Past islands of enchantment, capes that could have been
Called deception, disappointment and farewell,
To the strange and silent shores where now I stand:
Terra Incognita, a land whose memory
Has not begun, whose past has been forgotten
But for a clutter of legends and nightmares and lies.
This land, too, has a desert at its heart.
Went as a young man to Australia, exchanging
The cramped peninsula for the outback, the frugal
Patchwork of fields for the prodigal spaces he rode
Along the rabbit-fence or under the soaring jarra.
When he came back, he brought with him a boomerang
For the front-room mantelpiece, a spearhead chipped by an abo
From the green glass of a beer-bottle, an emu-skin rug
And the poems of Banjo Patterson. To me, his son,
He looked for the completion of a journey
Stopped at Gallipoli, that in my turn. I’d see
The river of black swans. The map of Australia
Was tattooed on his right arm.
And so I have
Another, hypothetical, Australian self,
The might-have-been man of a clean, new, empty country
Where nearly all the songs have yet to be sung.
It is this shadow that perhaps has led me
Past islands of enchantment, capes that could have been
Called deception, disappointment and farewell,
To the strange and silent shores where now I stand:
Terra Incognita, a land whose memory
Has not begun, whose past has been forgotten
But for a clutter of legends and nightmares and lies.
This land, too, has a desert at its heart.
Page(s) 14
magazine list
- Features
- zines
- 10th Muse
- 14
- Acumen
- Agenda
- Ambit
- Angel Exhaust
- ARTEMISpoetry
- Atlas
- Blithe Spirit
- Borderlines
- Brando's hat
- Brittle Star
- Candelabrum
- Cannon's Mouth, The
- Chroma
- Coffee House, The
- Dream Catcher
- Equinox
- Erbacce
- Fabric
- Fire
- Floating Bear, The
- French Literary Review, The
- Frogmore Papers, The
- Global Tapestry
- Grosseteste Review
- Homeless Diamonds
- Interpreter's House, The
- Iota
- Journal, The
- Lamport Court
- London Magazine, The
- Magma
- Matchbox
- Matter
- Modern Poetry in Translation
- Monkey Kettle
- Moodswing
- Neon Highway
- New Welsh Review
- North, The
- Oasis
- Obsessed with pipework
- Orbis
- Oxford Poetry
- Painted, spoken
- Paper, The
- Pen Pusher Magazine
- Poetry Cornwall
- Poetry London
- Poetry London (1951)
- Poetry Nation
- Poetry Review, The
- Poetry Salzburg Review
- Poetry Scotland
- Poetry Wales
- Private Tutor
- Purple Patch
- Quarto
- Rain Dog
- Reach Poetry
- Review, The
- Rialto, The
- Second Aeon
- Seventh Quarry, The
- Shearsman
- Smiths Knoll
- Smoke
- South
- Staple
- Strange Faeces
- Tabla Book of New Verse, The
- Thumbscrew
- Tolling Elves
- Ugly Tree, The
- Weyfarers
- Wolf, The
- Yellow Crane, The