[vc_row row_type=”row” use_row_as_full_screen_section=”no” type=”grid” in_content_menu=”” icon_pack=”font_awesome” content_menu_fe_icon=”arrow_back” text_align=”left” pattern_background=””][vc_column width=”1/1″][vc_column_text]Griffin Press is a new pamphlet/ small booklet press which focuses on short sequences and collaborations, especially of art and poetry, or of two voices (or more). The press also publishes exhibition and art series catalogues.
The first publications from Griffin Press are:
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(printed for the GPC):
This booklet explains the types of printmaking techniques that are available, and profiles some of the artists that belong to the Gloucestershire Printmaking Co-operative in Stroud. It is available through the GPC website – £3.
24pp[/vc_column_text][vc_separator type=”normal” position=”center” up=”20px” down=”20px”][vc_column_text]
The Opium Fish
by Tricia Torrington
The Opium Fish is my first solo collection. Initially published by Flarestack Poetry it has been reprinted by Griffin Press.
It is available to buy £5.[/vc_column_text][/vc_column][vc_column width=”1/2″][vc_column_text]
by Jennie Farley
This pamphlet is sequence of poems in which Jennie inhabits the hearts, minds and bodies of women in myth and folktale: those same hearts, minds and bodies are still found in women of today. Available from Griffin Press – £3
Jennie is available for workshops and readings, both as a solo artist and as part of her 8-woman strong performance group, Picaresque.[/vc_column_text][vc_empty_space height=”32px”][vc_row_inner][vc_column_inner width=”1/2″][vc_column_text]Wolf
If I could reach the wolf of you
beyond the sleek lover, the human truth,
down deep through caves of foetid sleep
to the whimpers, the fur, the musk of you,
as lost to the world you suck on dreams.
In feral dark I would lie with you,
clothe your mane with a diamond sheen.
I would lick your paws, anoint your pelt
with my woman’s scent, feed you
apples of the moon.[/vc_column_text][/vc_column_inner][vc_column_inner width=”1/2″][vc_column_text]The Constant Loom
I weave the stretch of cloth and draw
it tight, ready to unpick and start again.
My thumb snags on a pin. The pale
threads turn to red, I am pricked to rage.
I recall our wedding night when I oiled
your shoulders, finger-dried your hair,
joined you in our bed. O fickle husband!
sweet-talking your way into every woman’s
heart while I, your constant wife, straddle
my loom keeping my vow. Twenty years you keep
travelling while I hold off with false promises
suitors swarming at the gates.
The one with the scorching smile,
the one with swivelling hips, the sweet boy
with a voice seductive as harp song. I could’ve
had them all. My maidservants did to their great cost.
Now it’s time I revoked my vow, this shroud will be
completed soon, my thread-raw fingers racing skeins
across the spools, the pooling fabric telling a lament for
my lost years and for the twitching feet of the hanged maids.[/vc_column_text][/vc_column_inner][/vc_row_inner][/vc_column][/vc_row][vc_row][vc_column width=”1/1″][vc_empty_space height=”32px”][/vc_column][/vc_row]