Yule Donkey

Did nobody think of the donkey,
That carried Mary to the manger
In all the nativity scenes and stories
Amid all that high celebration?
The donkey was lowly, the lowest
And the low of Christmas,
Who is not marked by cards
Or decorations or even a carol
Celebrating its part in Christ’s birth.
Nobody thinks of the donkey,
That walked the miles to Bethlehem,
Over rough, broken ground,
In hot weather, carrying a woman
Carrying the son of God.
Heavy load for a poor mistreated animal,
The forgotten donkey of Christmas.
If it happened in Spain
There would be an outcry, a call
For holidaymakers to stop spending
Their cash, unless the donkey is saved
By the good people at The Sun.
But nobody thinks cares, or saves
The donkey of Christmas.
Not even the Daily Mail.

Grayson Ellis, 2005
Unpublished.

Merry Christmas

On behalf of Grayson, may I wish you all a very merry Christmas and a prosperous New Year. Grayson will be away in America until the second week in January and will be unable to reply to your letters until that time.

Up On Scarford Peak

As though bitten by weasels
My skin pained
By the striven wind
Incessant rain
As though spoons were placed
Upon my eyelids and raped
By the unceasing choir
Of cutlery in drawer.

Grayson Ellis (c) 1963
From ‘Pikey’

Confession No. 11

I have tasted human flesh,
Though the colour varied
As did the sex.
In Brazil, the first was soft but firm,
Tender and that shade of ochre
Poets turn into sunsets
Or fields of something ripe.
He was not ripe, no sunset
To warm my face, though
My cheeks did burn
Beneath him.
I still taste human flesh,
Though the colour varies,
As does the sex.

Grayson Ellis, 1989
‘Confessions’

Competition Winner

The winner of the signed copy of 'Spiked Armadillo Juice' is Ms. Anne Scarebrook from North Yorkshire. The correct answer was, of course, 'Tinned Mouth'. Many thanks for everybody who entered. Grayson was delighted to hear that there were so many of you who wanted a signed copy of his collection.

Snowfall

Knee deep in the driven snow,
High up in the hills, I was lost
From you, her, and from the world.
The weather had come in from
The West, where bad things dwell,
Capitalism, corporate America,
The breasts you found me gorging
When I was feeling low.
You said I shouldn’t have sought
Pleasure there, but how I was I to know
That you would cast me out,
And I would wander cold, until
Death was the only way forward?
How was I to know there was no way
Back.

Grayson Ellis, Sheffield, 1983
Unpublished.

Porcupine III

Remember the time we went hiking
In Newfoundland and saw the porcupine?
You said it was a hedgehog but I laughed
And called you a fool, a thing I regretted
The moment I said it since you cried.
I said sorry and we made love in the grass
Watched by the porcupine
Who probably thought us some
Strange creature, perhaps a hedgehog,
And it too had an apology from a lover
Who had called them a fool, and made
Love as we watched on, making jokes
About how porcupines make love.

Grayson Ellis (c) 1969
From ‘Porcupine’

Competition

I have a signed copy of Grayson’s newest collection of poems, ‘Spikes Armadillo Juice’, to give away. So, the prize will go to the first name out of the hat who can correctly name Grayson’s first collection of poems. The email address is at the side of the blog. Please mark your emails, ‘Competition’ to make sure you stand out. Closing date for entries is the 1st December, 2008.

Bessie

There are times when men like me, such as I,
Full grown past three score years,
Seek comfort in a woman such as you,
My dear sweet breasted Bessie.
Your doors are always open to me,
And I come to you, park my bike
In the alley, pass the men waiting
For the others, who interest me not
With the breathy smiles and damask lips.
I climb the stairs, familiar and worn
As smooth as your fair skin, my Bessie.
Familiar knots beneath my finger tips,
Are all I seek, for a fair price,
And then I’m gone, on my bike.
Goodbye my girl, sweat bested Bessie,
Same time next week, same time.
‘Ay’ says you, who have seen it all before.
‘Same time next week, same time.’

Grayson Ellis (c) 1976
From ‘Down Shropshire Way’

The Smallest Poem

Yes?

Grayson Ellis (c) 1979
From ‘Badgers and Owls’

Grayson Ellis To Appear At Literary Festival

On 3rd November, Grayson will be reading from his newest collection of verse, ‘Spiked Armadillo Juice’ as part of Shropshire’s Festival of Literature. Tickets are available from the event organizers and you should email to reserve your seat. The reading is expected to last an hour and the venue will probably be packed.

Update: The tickets are now sold out. Look for further announcements of Grayson’s appearances on this website.

Shropshire Piles

Inflamed passion, red hot coals,
Inward burning, upward rearing,
Seatward searing, eyeballs weeping
Solace seeking, ointment reeking,
Painful breaking, muscle contracting
Lotion squeezing, easing ending.

Grayson Ellis (c) 1969
From ‘Porcupine’
Reprinted with permission.

Website Update

Grayson has kindly sent me some unpublished poems, which I hope to include on the website in the near future. Unfortunately, he'll be out of the country at the end of December, so my plan to interview him will have to be held over until the New Year. If anybody has any questions they'd like me to ask, could you please send them via the email address at the side of the blog.

Song of a Misogynist

My darling, you hate me now
But give it time and I know
That you’ll find time to be sure
To hate me some more.
It was no lie to say I loved you
But I loved others equally true,
With skin softer, breasts better,
Hearts firmer, skirts shorter,
And times more exciting
Than our drab existence
Together. So don’t wait
And assume that we’ll
Be back together soon.
You hate me now,
But that’s only natural.
Just like you’ll be sure
To hate me more.

Grayson Ellis, 1989
‘Confessions’

Spiked Armadillo Juice

The first thing I knew were my legs going numb,
That holiday in Mexico, when tequila and I
Made friends and swore we’d never part.
You said that it was normal, a low level toxin
In the blood of the Armadillo, a quaint local
Curiosity that every tourist must experience
Once in the their small insignificant lives.
The feeling spread, you took me to my room,
And lay me out, as I complained of stiffness,
In joints that had not risen in years.
You said it was another side effect,
A happy reminder of why I was the man
You had come to love and intended to love.
I could do nothing for my arms had lost the will
That had once been further south, as you undressed
Me, as you had also spiked my armadillo juice.

Grayson Ellis (c) 2008
From ‘Spiked Armadillo Juice’

Urgle Went T’Warbler

St. Mithens Day, down Shropshire way,
I met a man with a rimlocked hoe,
Who said, not knowing, I suppose
That I would share his path that day.
‘Marry me, for this I’m certain sure,
That those come selling these ways, door to door,
Are on an poor man’s errand, with no pay.
No mission earnings, for we who aren’t rude
Are bound to be to be a touch insane,
And better spoon honey up Rimdale’s Lane.’
That I could not deny, though sweat I blood,
Nor could I be swayed, for it were cloth to me,
The bidden way, spoon and all, to be
And in the hedgerow, as though tokened to sing,
Urgle went t’warbler, and I went mine.

Grayson Ellis (c) 1965
From ‘Urgle Went T’Warbler’. Reprinted with permission of the author.

Welcome

I first met Grayson in 1972 when I was freshly released from prison after serving a three year sentence for my involvement in the animal liberation movement. I had been young and naive, caught up in the spirit of the sixties, but my incarceration was to change my life. During my time in HMP Holloway, I found comfort in books but my time was made easier once I’d discovered the dark, often comic, but usually morally complex poetry of Grayson Ellis, the so-called ‘Bard of Shropshire’. Just before my release, I had written to him and he had agreed to meet me.

Grayson was courteous from the first moment I met him. He did not judge me except to commend me for liking for the poetry of Philip Larkin. Over a pint of his favourite ale, he recited much of the ‘Whitsun Weddings’ to me from heart. He was reluctant to recite his own verse and said that it ‘didn’t deserve to take oxygen’ from the poetry of the man who he considered his ‘spiritual father’. Eventually, however, he relented and it was there in the ‘Smiling Farmer’ in Ruckley and Langley that I first heard the poem, ‘Urgle Went T’Warber’, recited by the poet who had blessed us with its creation.

Years passed but I kept in contact with Grayson. I had taken work for the local council and I soon had a family of my own to look after. Yet I had always wanted to work for Grayson, believing that his poetry was a vital link to the oral traditions of this country. However, Grayson was always too shy and retiring to accept my offers of help. He remained reluctant when I suggested ways of spreading his work.

It is only in recent years, after my family have moved away and I have spent more time with him, that Grayson’s stance softened to the point that he has now relented and I’m happy to set up this blog in his name. Grayson has given me permission to reprint many of his old poems and to also publish work as yet unseen in printed form. I can’t tell you what an honour this is and I hope that you will enjoy this adventure in the English language. I hope you will begin to see the genius of a gentle, genial bard, that I like to call my friend.

I would like to thank Peter and Susan from 'Comdex Wed Design' for helping me set up this blog. And I would, naturally, like to thank Grayson for permission to bring his work to a wider audience.