The Official Website of Grayson Ellis - Urgle Went T'Warbler

Paul Kingsnorth

2009-08-31T10:51:00.004+01:00

It was with interest that I came across the works of Paul Kingsnorth, an environmental activist and poet, whose debut collection, Kidland, will be published in 2010.

Particularly striking to me were the poems Reawakening and, especially, The Pool. The style, tone and perhaps message of these two poems bear a remarkable resemblance to a series of ‘creation myth’ verses written by Grayson when he was still a fourteen year-old schoolboy prodigy.

Juvenilia is always fascinating to poetry fans, though often embarrassing to the poets themselves! However, Grayson has kindly agreed to let me reproduce one of these nascent works, Genesis, on the site. Grayson wishes to make it clear that there is absolutely no implication of plagiarism here: since these works have never before been published in any form it is highly unlikely that Mr Kingsnorth would ever have read them. Indeed, for most of the last half-century they have been sitting in an old shoebox in Grayson’s cellar!

But what is fascinating is the way that themes - especially new creation myths, and concerns about man and his environment - linger in the human psyche, waiting to resurface in each new generation and to be expressed by great poetic talents such as Grayson and Paul.

Genesis

In the Beginning
Were the clever monkeys.
They were made by no God
But themselves, for they learnt
To talk, and by Talking
Made themselves Gods
But not real Gods, for there can be
No real Gods
That are made
By themselves.
Only false ones.

They learnt to hammer and cut
They taught themselves tricks.
They killed bears, badgers, buffalo.
Ate their flesh.
So clever were they.

The owls wept in the forests.
The monkeys couldn’t hear,
For all their cleverness.
They shed their hair.

The clever hairless monkeys
Formed gangs and set fire
To Eden. They raped their monkeywives
And invented guns
And tinned meat.
And the atom bomb.
They raped Eden, and Eden wept.

Were they really so clever
Then?

(Unpublished, 1953. With permission)

The Unforgottenness of You

2009-08-21T12:01:00.001+01:00

This is the kind of beautiful poem I would love to have written about me some day!

The Unforgottenness of You

When you came to me,
I leapt.

When you went from me,
I wept.

But when you died I kept
the unforgottenness of you
in a drawer with my poem-pen,
My pipe and tobacco,
And my sacred collection of
birds' eggs.

Copyright Grayson Ellis 1986

(first published in the Sunday Telegraph special supplement "From the Heart - Valentine poems for a loveless age" - February 1987)

Massa Damnata

2009-07-24T10:49:00.000+01:00

An exclusive scoop for the blog! I can reveal that Septic Bubblegum, the forthcoming collection of Grayson’s verse, will include a previously unpublished series of poems composed in response to the so-called 'War on Terror'.

Grayson of course opposed the American response to the 9/11 terrorist attacks, though, as usual, his objections were largely aesthetic rather than moralistic.

Here's a sneak preview of one of the poems.

Massa Damnata

Watch the hell out.

Run like foxes to dens.
The eagle is about to
fuck us up.

I lost my left shoe in the race
to the stinking bunker. Fuck that.

Grayson Ellis, December 2002
Unpublished.

Pensées of a People-Watcher - No.9

2009-07-23T10:45:00.001+01:00

You have
dirty-blonde fronds.
But are you, I wonder,
A dirty blonde?

Grayson Ellis, 1972
Reprinted, with permission, from ‘Deflation’

There but for the Grace - a 'Problem Poem'

2009-07-20T08:29:00.003+01:00

There but for the Grace has been classed by some critics as one of Grayson’s ‘Problem Poems’, along with the likes of Midnight at the Convent (1972), A Gap in the Hedge and The Barn Owl has the Softest Down (both 1981).

For me however, Grace is more emblematic than problematic. The themes of individual liberty, mob morality and ‘victimless crime’ have recurred sporadically in Grayson’s work, as have issues around animal rights and rural traditions. It is well known that Grayson has, at different times in his life, been passionately in favour of, and violently opposed to, foxhunting - though generally on aesthetic rather than moral grounds. But, as Grayson himself has famously put it:

Consistency is the both the most inconsistent virtue and the most consistently misunderstood vice. The artist, who most certainly should not be consistent, too often is; while the critic, who must be consistent if he is to be anything at all, too often isn’t. (1)

Here's the poem, decide for yourself!

There but for the Grace

They had old Bert in cuffs.
Dragged through fool-thronged streets
to Shrewsbury gaol,
For the crime of loving Nature just
six inches too much.

We are all bestial. Oh
the greybeards, eyeglassed
collectors, cold scientists,
They divide up life, wallcharts,
Nets and belljars, microscopes,
Pronounce names, rule on ‘species’,
Freeze them in catalogues.

But there’s no catalogue
for love. Seed is seed, and love is love.
The horse covers the ass: the mule is no great sin.
Old Bert knew badgers, sheep, otters,
Deeper than any scientist knows their ways;
He knew their love.

At the steps of Shrewsbury gaol
old Bert caught my eye.
I know why: For there but for the Grace
go you, go I.

(C) Grayson Ellis, 1989
‘Confessions’
Reprinted with permission.

(1) Grayson Ellis Fishing for Dead Trout: Critical analysis in the Post-Thatcher World (1992). Originally published in the Times Literary Supplement 14/5/92

Your Eternal Crow

2009-07-18T13:29:00.000+01:00

For Ted Hughes

Marshalling old reserves, the Crow old cried
Infinity splitting guttural bullets of air
Inflaming his spirit, trapping wing
Until he soared to talon formation up there.

‘I sing because the feathers are as few
As the counting wind days
Of masking earth with the span
Of my flight.’

So he rose, immaculate black, a jest
Of shadow and light, until
On milked cloud he nested
And was eternal Crow.

Grayson Ellis, 1973
Reprinted, with permission, from ‘Deflation’

Keep Scotland

2009-07-17T10:30:00.000+01:00

You can keep Scotland,
Aye! That’s no light bequeathment,
I ken. For I give you the Eagle Owl, the stag,
I give you the Bens, even.
As God gave them.

But that God is a hard God,
His palm the stiff rod that
Spanks the wayward bairn.
I cannot bend that way.

No! I’ll stay a Shropshire lad
And you can keep Scotland, just
leave me the Shire.
For my God is the soft Hand – blessed sacrament –
that cradles the new-hatched Tawny,
That clutches the buttock, the heart.

Grayson Ellis (c) 1963
Reprinted, with permission, from ‘Pikey’

When I’m invited to give lectures on Grayson’s oeuvre, or if I’m leading student discussion groups, I often start with Keep Scotland.

It is an early poem and, while Grayson’s styles and preoccupations varied widely over the following decades, Keep Scotland hints at many of the themes that resonate throughout his later, more mature work. Nature obviously, but more importantly the complex questions about the relationship between the religious and the corporeal that have occupied Grayson throughout his life, and the answers to which he seems only to glimpse in his beloved Shropshire. If there can be any ‘answers’, that is!

It is a great shame that in the late 1990s the English Independence Party adopted the opening line of the poem as a slogan in their campaign for a separate English Parliament. Grayson himself has shunned organised politics throughout his life and is certainly not anti-Scottish. Indeed, his admiration for the landscape and wildlife of that great, ancient country is obvious for all to see.

A Reader Requests...

2009-07-16T21:06:00.006+01:00

Sally P. from Humberside emailed me to ask if I could reprint one of Grayson's poems that she remembered from school but has been unable to find. I think the poem Sally refers to is called 'Innocence 14:11'. The text is from 'Badgers & Owls', which is sadly no longer in print. However, I can confirm that it is in the forthcoming collection of Grayson's work, 'Septic Bubblegum'. It's typical of modern education that a writer like Grayson should fall out of favour. Hopefully, such a major volume of his work should reignite the public's interest.

I spoke to Grayson today on the phone and he was delighted by the blog (kudos to Simon who helps us with the graphics) and he hopes to send us some of his unpublished poems in the near future. When I mentioned this poem, he growled 'why the hell do you want to reprint that s***?' which I think says much about the humility of the man.

Innocence 14:11

I lost my virginity at Whipsnade Zoo,
To tigers, llamas, the Peruvian gnu,
Long before Vera took it that night
In the back seat of her red Austin Sprite.
For what is innocence but the belief
That we are so much more than beast,
Before passion rears its ugly head
Staining the sheets in my unmade bed?
I saw that day, as a wide eyed child
That we are but one hunger from wild,
And that ours is a true sexual intellect
That makes men walk perpetually erect.

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

Father Dada

2009-07-16T11:16:00.001+01:00

For Tom Stoppard

Molten cheese dripping from a carbuncular sky,
Weeping lizards and men with hairy clock faces,
None of whom know their way to Stalybridge.
Beneath the cryptic bridge with alligator clip ties
A morose anchovy salesman, broken about the knees,
Holds up the variegated nozzle to a Czechoslovakian hose
(Three eighths diameter, not an inch over a whistler’s thumb)
And wonders if it will ever pump muesli again into Bratislava.

Meanwhile Bogart stands in line beneath a pelican sky
Rubber jowl, simian brow, hazy smoke percolates
In steady circuit from mouth to nostril, twitch lipped
And freak ready to break bone. That other word
Men say, ‘do’, is to exist where adult is all that
I remember from those liquid soap absolutions
In the choir each night: ten boys playing poker,
Pollination of the flame breasted candles,
Running with unctuous self-congratulation.

(C) Grayson Ellis, 1989
‘Confessions’
Reprinted with permission.

The Book of Revelation

2009-07-16T09:01:00.002+01:00

Grayson writes:

Finding oneself represented online has a sobering effect on the poet. Or, at least, that is how I feel about this nefarious thing called fame. Our landscapes are internal to us. What we produce, these little chaffish flecks of existence, drift away, published and republished in anthology, cherished by some, abhorred by others. It never occurs to the writer that they may affect a human soul a thousand miles or even a lifetime away. One thinks of posterity but does any artist consider the product of his existence beyond the yearly stipend from publisher or agent? What would Nietzsche have felt if he had witnessed the horrors of a world war?

I don’t expect wars to be fought over me, though, in my darkest hours, like any writer, to be immortalised in a bloodbath seems like a pleasing alternative to the assumed obscurity. So, I arrive at this blog, created in my name by others, adorned with my face, striated by my words, and I feel an outsider in my own world. I have not reached an age – nor may I ever – when having people stare at me feels anything like normality. Instead I recollect the moments in my life of which I am most ashamed. It is not unlike standing before an audience, to lecture or to recite, when I imagine that eyes see into the very depths of my soul and are repelled by what they see.

What do you see? I make no great claims for my amorality. I’ll leave that for others to catalogue, as I am sure they will. Instead, I will simply say, of my occasional immorality, my intentions were never spiteful. As a poet, I believe I have made it my theme to simply portray life in its cruellest agonies of circumstance, rarely of our making, usually of our suffering, etching away at an atomic on the substance of our soul.

[UPDATE: Sat. 18th July, 18:19. Grayson emailed me this note late Friday and in my rush to post it, I forgot to thank him for the interest he's showing in our blog and the wider blogging community. When I helped him to set up an account, I hardly expected him to use it and I'm encouraging him to respond via comments here as I've seen him do on other blogs.]

'M'

2009-07-15T16:12:00.000+01:00

Mr. Mitty masturbates
Most Monday mornings,
Manipulating medium manhood
Modestly, maintaining
Moderate motions,
Mouthing muttered moans,
Mercurially measuring
Memorised models
Mechanically massaging
Monumental moist mammaries
Mimicking megastar
Marilyn Monroe.

Grayson Ellis, 1973
Reprinted, with permission, from ‘Deflation’

Christ on Ilkley Moor: An Analysis of Grayson Ellis’s ‘Innocence Lost’

2009-07-15T11:28:00.003+01:00

Innocence Lost

Do you remember it? I cannot remember
anything else. That cold spring
of it all. On Ilkley Moor
I hiked all day. Through the rich
Yellow spikes of Bog Asphodel, 5
following the badger trails and chill cries of the
Redshank. In the limited shelter
Of a brazen hillock
I gave up my innocence
To poetry, and to nature’s cruel Muse. 10
And after, starving and wide-eyed
as a tawny owl, flew raggedly back to
Your uncle’s cottage,
Where you were waiting, reading Proust,
For a cheap cabernet and a can of meat. 15
You blessed our entwinement
twice, you blessed the can
of meat. Then, thrice blessed, we went to bed.
It was bacon grill, I remember.

Grayson Ellis (c) 1969
From ‘Porcupine’
Reproduced With Permission

It has become common practice to place Grayson Ellis in the tradition of nature poets stretching back through Ted Hughes, William Wordsworth, John Clare, and including figures such as Andrew Marvell or even John Milton. However, there is an argument one might make which places Ellis in a different tradition altogether. In this essay, I will argue that, in his poem ‘Innocence Lost’, Grayson Ellis foregrounds the Catholicism often latent in his work but rarely explored given the critical bias towards his misanthropy, bisexuality, and his early political activism and later isolationism.

Ilkley Moor is an unusual setting for Ellis, given that he is generally recognised as the ‘bard of Shropshire’. However, though set in Yorkshire, the poem treads familiar ground. ‘Bog Asphodel’ (l. 5) calls to mind, naturally, Sir Phillip Sidney’s sonnet sequence, ‘Astrophel and Stella’; only, to Ellis, one of the most anti-romantic poets of his age, love does not fit into fourteen lines. Love is akin to a cruel conquest, since, as Ellis would surely know, Bog Asphodel is also known as ‘Narthecium ossifragum’, the Latin name meaning ‘weak bone’. This playfulness is typical of Ellis. Sex is reduced to the hard slog through the bogged mire of lust and whatever his penetrative ambitions (alluded to by the spiked plant), his ‘bone’ is weak, flaccid.

During the mid-1960s, Ellis reveals in his diaries that he experienced long periods of impotence.

I write poetry when my organs scream out for satisfaction but nothing works for me. I can only harden at the appearance of my landlady come to demand rent. How can I lust after such a creature I do not know. Perhaps it’s a form of absolution for what happened in Sardinia.
(Grayson Ellis, ‘Diaries’, Volume 1: 1958-69)

It might be too much to assume that the ‘brazen hillock’ is the same woman, but one has to bear in mind that landscape to Ellis is often sexualised. His tropes are those of the lustful man. Even the word ‘hillock’ has a sexual edge, the pregnant push of the double ‘l’, ending with the ‘lock’ to which perhaps only he has the key.

The poem reaches its consummation, as it were, with the two lines which stand proudly like an accusation, and are so reminiscent of Eliot:

Where you were waiting, reading Proust,
For a cheap cabernet and a can of meat. (ll. 14-15)

The Catholicism is apparent with the explicit reference to the sacrament. Here we have both wine and bread, though the bread (symbolic of flesh) is made quite real in the form of a can of meat. Critics, notably Professor Granger, have noted that Ellis takes ‘great satisfaction in elevating the ridiculous to almost religious levels of significance’ (‘The Barn Owl’ [Pengrove, 1982]). His 1975 poem ‘Tinned Meat’ includes the line: ‘twist me open, my spirit bled its last jelly’.

Here, in ‘Innocence Lost’, the ‘can of meat’ becomes a metaphor both for the virile manhood but also for the human spirit contained in the hard shell of corpulent matter. Yet there is a paradox here that is doubly apparent. The bread of the transubstantiation has become meat, yet meat had also been transformed to spirit and the ‘body’ is now the cold container of the tin. This confusion is deliberate. To Ellis, sex is not separated from his being. There is no attempt to attain a higher being. The meat is both his spirit and his manhood; his manhood, as many have pointed out, is the essential spirit of Grayson Ellis. This, I think, mocks the notion of the blessing, found in the last four lines of the poem.

You blessed our entwinement
twice, you blessed the can
of meat. Then, thrice blessed, we went to bed.
It was bacon grill, I remember. (ll. 16-19)

The blessing of the meat has ancient associations in rituals. However, with typical abandon, Ellis does not reach for the language of the church. The urbane ‘it was bacon grill’ demands to be read as straightforward understatement. His meat is tortured in the hand of his lover.

However, Ellis is never one to shy away from heresy. He is an avowed agnostic and here it’s as if he deliberately wishes to offend the practicing Christian. The bacon being grilled directs the mind towards a language of sacrifice, in which the spirit is subjected to torture. It is surely the image of Christ on the cross, the flesh suffering under the burning heat of the midday sun high on that hill in Golgotha. It would be a stretch to assume this had we not the evidence of the 1978 unpublished verse, ‘Christians Love Bacon Sandwiches’, which ends with one Ellis’s more sardonic lines, the order to ‘Chew the meat, salvation in tooth / Gristle, muscle, sin and tomato satisfaction’ (l. 37-38).

Only, on Ilkley Moor, there is no ‘tomato satisfaction’. Even sex, once endured, becomes the fading remnant of a memory.

Shelly Greene
The University of Preston

July News

2009-07-15T11:17:00.001+01:00

The website has been quite these last few months, mainly due to my own ill heath (I’m feeling a lot better). Whilst we’ve been gone, we’ve received quite a few emails. I’m doing my best to answer them all and to forward any requests to Grayson who is currently in the country.

Shelly Greene, an undergraduate student of English at the University of Preston, has sent us an essay to reprint (I shall do so shortly). It’s good to see a new generation of scholars emerge. Though Grayson has often alluded to his cynicism towards critics, I think there is much to be said about studying a poet of Grayson’s standing. I want to thank Shelly for allowing us to reprint the essay and I have sent her a signed proof copy of Grayson’s collected verse, ‘Septic Bubblegum’, which will be available in the Autumn.

Septic Bubblegum: Grayson's Collected Poems

2009-05-19T14:20:00.004+01:00

Grayson has been kind enough to send us a signed proof copy of his collected verse. It's due out in the Autumn and I can't convey the quality of the book. Nearly six hundred pages long, it contains everything that Grayson has written over the last four decades. We'll get a review up closer to the time and Grayson has promised to sign a few more copies the next time he's in the country for lucky readers.

The Sea

2009-01-03T14:09:00.000Z

Swollen brine, salted ocean,
Deep unpardonable sea,
Whose secrets are, as mine,
Impenetrable but for the creatures
Of dark habits, sediment feeding
Crawlers, and the harsh pincer
Clawed critics, who seek out
The soft flesh from weaker
Bellies, such as yours and mine.

Grayson Ellis, 1973
‘Poetry’s For Cabbages’.
Reprinted with permission.

Sex in Inclement Weather

2009-01-02T12:10:00.002Z

Climbing the last broken vertebra
Of this mountain range, I look down
On the cottage we had taken for
The weekend of passion, not hiking.
You thought it strange that I’d turned away
From your crinkled nightgown, silken
Underwear, pouting suffrage of
The life we had promised ourselves.
Why had I chosen to walk up here
Among the owls and the badgers
When your loving vulva was there
For the taking, my dear wife of then?
What had the owls to womanly virtues,
Why the badger over the thrust of sex?
You could not know, as I did not know,
Then, unlike now, about my mission
To love nature as though my mistress
And to you I brought only distress
And tales of the badgers and owls.

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

Happy New Year!

2009-01-01T11:01:00.002Z

First, let me begin by wishing you all a happy New Year. I have just come off the phone from Grayson, who is enjoying his holiday in America. He asked me to pass on his warmest wishes and says that he looks forward to replying to your many emails in the coming weeks.

Given the importance of the year to Grayson – it’s fifty years since he published his first poem – I’ll be trying to update the website more regularly. Family commitments have made it difficult to post during certain times last year, but from now until Grayson’s return from America, I intend to reprint a few of his lesser known poems from some of his more obscure collections. I also hope to finally conduct our interview with Grayson, which I intend to publish here to mark his birthday in February.

Roll on 2009. As he says in his poem, 'Larks Descending', may it be a year full of 'unhindered pleasure and worthy indulgence'.

New Year, 1972

2009-01-01T09:32:00.000Z

Another one gone. I sit here, the gloom
Of New York, the same as the gloom
Of any book signing, poetry reading,
Lively eyed teenagers, the playful
Urgings of youth set against
The doleful resignation of middle age.
Temptation was never this bad
When I was unread, unpublished,
A mere dreg of the poetry circles.
Now there is honour in my passing,
And I sanctify the flesh I touch
Or taste, as if to mark it with a tattoo
To say that Grayson Ellis was here,
Drunk on the eve of the year, 1972

Grayson Ellis, 1973
Reprinted, with permission, from ‘Deflation’

Yule Donkey

2008-12-25T09:00:00.002Z

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

2008-12-24T12:35:00.001Z

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

2008-12-13T11:38:00.000Z

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

2008-12-07T10:38:00.000Z

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

2008-12-02T14:52:00.001Z

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

2008-12-01T16:01:00.000Z

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

2008-11-29T10:34:00.001Z

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

2008-11-20T11:41:00.000Z

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

2008-11-19T20:33:00.006Z

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

2008-11-18T17:45:00.000Z

Yes?

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

Grayson Ellis To Appear At Literary Festival

2008-10-21T14:32:00.000+01:00

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

2008-10-19T14:23:00.000+01:00

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

2008-10-01T02:38:00.000+01:00

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

2008-09-22T11:32:00.000+01:00

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

2008-09-03T12:21:00.001+01:00

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

2008-09-02T17:35:00.001+01:00

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

2008-09-02T01:23:00.002+01:00

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.