UK Poet, Philosopher & Artist Ivor Griffiths' Official Website

Herlihy’s Reptile Collection

March 18th, 2014

Herlihy’s Reptile Collection

Georgian crowds bound to him, pondering
a vision: rings of people floating in orbit.

His mind died in damp fog – grey as ashtrays;
croaked, from a throat hollowed brittle
by fags and joints
smoked in a bar, in New York, South Tyneside.

Reborn, at four fifteen, on the cusp of light:
a solitary skink in a tank, in a tower,
in New York, South Tyneside.

Hidden under Shields’ sand,
weaned by electric heat: carefully.
A boy, blond, gawped through glass
blurred and twisted, like mutant pink.
In a tank, in a tower
near New York, South Tyneside.
Skink imagined a birth
pressed out in sharp quartz sand
beneath warm tobacco leaves

mottled, like the Seven Stars floor,
stubbed out fag-end burns,
a tracheotomy’s troublesome stoma
his cigarette holder: raw stingers
void his voltage, and scale a suit

crumpled to second thoughts
that scabbed a doubt:
sky is a strip
of electric light,
slung above a bucket.

|| Poet UK || Current Affairs Comment ||

Autistica FAbularama BiPolaristica – a poem by Ivor Griffiths

March 15th, 2014

Autistica FAbularama BiPolaristica

drilling machinery downwards, plunging
needles, pins a brain synapse connection; widgets
welded rivets – smoke, a thought slug, white head
liverish splendour, grinning, clever sly,
husband of black toothed adultress
- anyone but him. Anytime. He leaves,

glistening diamond studded trails, ooze
behind her rubbery slitherer, grins wide
swivel eyed, on stalks, pervay’s the corpse
dismissively, body rippling, past cackler’s
hysterical laughter at the fat hairless blob
laughing stock and cuckolded slob,
“See? Who the fook are you?”

|| Poet UK || Current Affairs Comment ||

Moliere & Molly’s Magic Ping Moment

March 15th, 2014

Moliere & Molly’s Magic Ping Moment

It’s magic, full of star shaped fuzzy light stuff,

mirror-balls spinning, floating in bright yellow light

Molly, me and humanity – warm skins, a glowing

patina of sweat beads circling fractured fractions,

of fractious thoughts, we lie down, dark shadows merge

into our special white yellow light.

A butterfly, broken wings, crushed chrysalis bits,

meringue pieces lying on fresh tarmac.

A warm road skin – glowing black liquorice -

shiny water droplets, steam rises – smells nice.

“Bye, bye!” little boy cries,

crying tear drops splatter.

Now unaware, coming up, disassociating ethereal

grounds, as sunlight pings from window to mirror,

pulsing light, signifying to some -

fir trees on a horizon line, black against orange

nibbling a sky, blue blurred, fraying edges, threadbare.

Diverging now – shadow memories decorate pavements,

hardened, like Plato’s cave, the thirteenth (magic it is!) chakra,

a multi-faceted two dimensional timeless blood line.

Add ten, multiply, divide, sequence, linearise the binaries.

Then it’s done, now he’s gone. And her, and her. And him.

Pinging towards the sky. Forever happy.


|| Poet UK || Current Affairs Comment ||


March 2nd, 2014


Blue eyes, furrowed nasal bridge frown, caressed, coveted and possessed.

Running away from tragedy. Remedial action required, a thought wisp.

He knew, the third eye, it can help that piece of every one;

fall back to the one, the me, that is needed.

Not a creeper, a crawler manipulator – listening and walking

suspicious and constant is the interruption and irritation

disruption and cancellation of my thought processing.

Obstructive – a road block to progress. Obstructive a thought planter – limpet like

in the distraction of her destructive need to control, hurt and gloat

at the result.

Stamina is such that no amount of double Dutch code speak – “it’s a load of shite” -

response as a cover for blank faced stupidity would help.

A good mother? Probably, but so what?

What does that mean?

But the stone man is dreaming a dream of passing – passing –

still with me and him and her and them – all to one place – somewhere she is not.

The lad walked in, and she’s back again, desperate to interrupt and control the situation.

To make her voice heard – come what may – what is envy?

She knows: fear. Looking in the mirror and seeing time.

Snow falls slowly, methodically, gradually, smoothing it all out. The

trees, bushes, dustbins and plants merge with cars, even houses.

The frozen land that crept through leather soles to freeze skin flat.

In the memory he looked eighteen months old, unsteady toddler,

standing, staring at his wrist. It had a bandage wrapped around it,

tied to the cot, bright white enamel metal.

He cried.


|| Poet UK || Current Affairs Comment ||


February 27th, 2014


Toes started it. Nipping cold toe, blue shiny

frozen toe. Meandered, lazy like,

to fingers.

Peripheral light flickered sharply divergent and diagonally

he succumbed to a slumber, he wanted day before stuff

from a soft edged vista. He peered through a hole in time, jagged edges.

Surrounded, each side also, lines of Aztec gnomes, hats reddened

or blackened: depending on the thought mode.

Some frowned or glowered returned neutrality: back in the eye.

Acuity, concision and precision is a watchmaker’s blindness;

the last words lost to him, too small in time rewound 17 times over,

elevated shore line – misty heat haze above it lifted them

to red sky, blue sky and green.

Jealousy splits granite – slowly – ice

numbs it, time cracks it. Gone for good.

Bubba, Billy the Cat and me. At shore’s edge, waves small,

frothy saline drips,

i.v. leaking, blood dripping, puss fills a jar.

Life, it’s not that far,

elevates us into the eye-line

shimmer and the beauty and light of love.

The beginning is the end sometimes,

futile, lonely.

The mind’s eye or a Third Eye.

Lobsang knew.

|| Poet UK || Current Affairs Comment ||