Poems about Frankston

Frankston can get some bad press at times. Like many regional centres, especially at the end of the railway line, it has its share of problems: youth unemployment, drugs, crime and all that comes out of that.

But there’s another side of Frankston too; it was once a sleepy seaside holiday town, with a long, sandy beach and a meandering creek wandering by the shoreline. You can even read a passionate defence by the Mayor of Frankston HERE

I grew up in Frankston and though I haven’t written about it a lot, just a few poems now and then, it’s part of who I am. In my writing, my interests have moved further south, to Port Phillip Bay and Western Port Bay particularly.

But I was delighted to be asked to contribute to a forthcoming anthology of poems about Frankston and I can’t wait to see how other writers have responded to this place. I think I’ll have a couple of poems in the collection including, The Day it Snowed in Frankston. More details when I know more about a launch date.

Remembering Dylan Thomas


I couldn’t let this year slip away without dedicating something to the Welsh poet, Dylan Thomas, who was born 100 years ago in 1914, and who meant a lot to me when I was a young writer trying to develop my own voice, or grow out of his.

Thomas is a bit out of fashion now; that lovable, hard-drinking, hard-partying, womanising? thing looks a bit self-indulgent now, and his poetic legacy remains in some uncertainty; a lyrical poet or someone too in love with the sound of their own voice?

Still, for me, some of Dylan Thomas’s poems were always important, and I was drawn to their voice and lyricism as well as the sense of ‘place’ and the sea that has always mattered in my own writing.

For a little while, when we were first married, we rented an old weatherboard place that overlooked Port Phillip Bay and I spent a charmed summer writing poems that tried to sound like him. While I hope I eventually found my own voice, I still admired Thomas, and even named him in my 2011 list of My Top Ten Poets (though I might revise that list now a bit: Auden up, Donne down)

And, in that first literary pilgrimage, that first trip to Europe when the kids were little, Dylan Thomas was firmly on the trail, along with Wordsworth, Yeats, Eliot, Hardy, Austen, Shakespeare and Bronte. We travelled to Laugharne especially: had a pint of Guinness at the local (I did, the kids didn’t!) and then walked up the hill to the The Dylan Thomas Boathouse and the small, humble white cross of his grave.

Later, I taught Under Milk Wood to senior students and dragged my tattered old Everyman paperback version of his Collected Poems around with me a lot; I even remember someone asking me what I was doing with a book of poetry at a surfing competition at Bells Beach a one stage.

There’s some links below, if you want to read more about Thomas, and below that, one of my favourite Thomas poems, Fern Hill: the text and an audio of Thomas reading that poem.

And, I’ve dragged that copy of his Collected Poems out to look at again today too, before the year tilts away.

The Dylan Thomas Official Website

The Poetry Foundation site on Dylan Thomas

Dylan Thomas 100 Years Festival Site

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Fern Hill

Now as I was young and easy under the apple boughs

About the lilting house and happy as the grass was green,

The night above the dingle starry,

Time let me hail and climb

Golden in the heydays of his eyes,

And honoured among wagons I was prince of the apple towns

And once below a time I lordly had the trees and leaves

Trail with daisies and barley

Down the rivers of the windfall light.

And as I was green and carefree, famous among the barns

About the happy yard and singing as the farm was home,

In the sun that is young once only,

Time let me play and be

Golden in the mercy of his means,

And green and golden I was huntsman and herdsman, the calves

Sang to my horn, the foxes on the hills barked clear and cold,

And the sabbath rang slowly

In the pebbles of the holy streams.

All the sun long it was running, it was lovely, the hay

Fields high as the house, the tunes from the chimneys, it was air

And playing, lovely and watery

And fire green as grass.

And nightly under the simple stars

As I rode to sleep the owls were bearing the farm away,

All the moon long I heard, blessed among stables, the nightjars

Flying with the ricks, and the horses

Flashing into the dark.

And then to awake, and the farm, like a wanderer white

With the dew, come back, the cock on his shoulder: it was all

Shining, it was Adam and maiden,

The sky gathered again

And the sun grew round that very day.

So it must have been after the birth of the simple light

In the first, spinning place, the spellbound horses walking warm

Out of the whinnying green stable

On to the fields of praise.

And honoured among foxes and pheasants by the gay house

Under the new made clouds and happy as the heart was long,

In the sun born over and over,

I ran my heedless ways,

My wishes raced through the house high hay

And nothing I cared, at my sky blue trades, that time allows

In all his tuneful turning so few and such morning songs

Before the children green and golden

Follow him out of grace,

Nothing I cared, in the lamb white days, that time would take me

Up to the swallow thronged loft by the shadow of my hand,

In the moon that is always rising,

Nor that riding to sleep

I should hear him fly with the high fields

And wake to the farm forever fled from the childless land.

Oh as I was young and easy in the mercy of his means,

Time held me green and dying

Though I sang in my chains like the sea.

Dylan Thomas, 1914 – 1953

Flying Poems

I’ve put together a little e-chapbook of some poems about flying, some old, some new. Looking back at my poetry over a number of years, I was surprised to see the wonder and joy of flight has interested me for so long. It’s on AMAZON at the bargain price of $4.99 in the Kindle Store.

I’ve got another couple of mini-collections that I intend to publish in Kindle format in the first half of this year, so if you’re not interested in flying, maybe something else later on will get your attention. You can read more about the ‘Flying’ poems below:



Notes on the ‘Flying Poems’

The poems in this mini-collection are all based around flight and flying, something which has always fascinated me, and I’ve mixed up some photographs and sketches in all that too.
Here’s a brief outline of what’s in the selection.

The first poem is ‘Tullamarine Gothic’, a poem that tries to recapture the gothic glory of flying before it became all laminex. Tullamarine is the name of the airport in Melbourne.

‘Prom Bird’ is an imagist piece on the Superb Blue Wren, a beautiful bird often seen at Wilson’s Promontory where I spend some time very summer.

Bats couldn’t be more different to the beautiful blue wren but there’s something beautify and fascinating flight of these big fruit bats that come up from the river every night, so ‘Bats’ is next.

‘Eight Swans’ is a little bit inspired by the Sufjan Stevens song ‘Seven Swans’ and a little bit inspired by the birds themselves, flying high over Port Phillip Bay one night.

‘Swallow’ is another short, quick poem that tries to capture the elusive flight of the swallow as it flits over water.

‘Blocked’ is based on that thud you sometimes hear, when a bird has flown into a window of your house and found it’s path blocked.

When the kids were little I got really interested in kites and we flew them a lot. ‘Kite Flying’ is about the tug of the wind in your hand.

‘Fronts’ describes that jolting feeling you get sometimes in an aeroplane when you hit turbulence and wonders where that turbulence comes from.

Clayton is pretty ugly and industrial, mostly. In ‘Flying Over Clayton’ I felt like I was flying through an alien landscape.

‘Flying Over Europe’ is inspired by a recent trip to Spain. From the air Europe seems a landscape without national borders.

Earlier in 2013 I went to Malaysia and wrote ‘Flying Over Australia’. You seem to fly over Australia forever, and if you have a window seat, you can be hypnotised by the surreal landscape below you.

I love looking at the little map on flights, seeing where you are. On one flight we flew over Borneo and I looked down and saw it. I knew the word ‘Borneo’ because my grandfather went there to fight the Japanese in World War II. And there it was; that’s ‘Flying Over Borneo

In ‘Flying Over American’ I was captivated by the clarity of the landscape and the American names, which are so familiar to those of who grew up with American movies and songs.

‘Flying Over Malaysia’ is more about a brief conversation with the taxi driver than the flight itself.

The final poem in the selection, ‘On the Beauty of Airliners’, like the opening poem, laments the passing of style and elegance in our notions of flight. I do think airliners are strangely beautiful; I’m always amazed they can fly.