UK Poet, Philosopher & Artist Ivor Griffiths' Official Website

My Poetry

Suited Connectors by Ivor Griffiths 2007

Sunday, September 23rd, 2007

Suited Connectors

fluttered in woodsmoke
as he sat
hunched before the eye

imagining her pose
on a buttoned leather chair
cloaked by shade

in their chalk white alcove.

In the style of Austerian cleverness

Sunday, September 23rd, 2007

In the style of Austerian cleverness

he’s fondling cards
outside the flat backed bar.
He’s a mottled sheepskin coat
his yellowed fingers curl to white.

When he imagines the twist of her:
the inkling is uneven,
like tarmac steam in the rain.

Medieval Modicums’ Speak

Sunday, September 23rd, 2007

Medieval Modicums’ Speak

Ooh Err, she said, agog, before the tear
streaked ads of errant woes!

I’ve lost me Holy Grail,

the grimace of
the angstified thingy replied

even without needing to speak

Jump on your ‘orse why dontcha?
Go on a quest or summic, she cried (waving ‘er arms about like)

I’m gonna stay ‘ere before the dawn of morn
aglowing in me finest old fashioned stuff, she wailed.

Then wept and wept and wept some more.

Ivor Griffiths 2007

Early Poems

Wednesday, August 29th, 2007

These are some early poems that I have now decided not to develop. They are however all copyright. Enjoy.

  • Emotional Cripple
  • Fugitive is
  • Grey Scale
  • Guardian Angel
  • I don’t like the Settee take it back
  • I remember the gasworks’
  • Iron Lung is Noisy
  • The Mole Catcher
  • Knifed
  • Los Angeles in September
  • Magic Medicine
  • Nightmare sticks
  • Sentimental Reminiscence
  • Septuagenarian Suicide Pact
  • Silverdale
  • The Mole Catcher
  • the undertakers son
  • The Weaver inspired by Theodore Roethke’s “The Waking”
  • Tough Guy
  • Transitory termination can be a good thing
  • Wasp in the room
  • Her at No. 29

    Monday, August 27th, 2007

    Green Sequoia, slow down — take the joy of her,
    Slow down and breathe the coy her, feelings
    tapping on the broken window, in half-life light.
    Get down, feathers and a shilling, wrap them

    in a white shade of hessian — rough touch
    smoothes a flinching wince,
    like a stone frog catching flies.
    It’s in the blood, 1989: On the wire

    floating above a garden, dreaming
    a compost smell, hiding a wobbly
    neighbour, staring through the sash-windows
    that squeal open, like cats drowning.

    Smoke haze in the kitchen, everyone smoking
    and talking; laughing at shiny photographs.
    Monotone edged in white, like the life
    of the neighbour’s wife, shaking to a bongo
    and tidying like Andy Warhol.

    Ivor Griffiths 2007