Thursday, 10 November 2016

In Memory of Leonard Cohen (1934-2016)

If I am dumb beside your body
while silence blossoms like tumors on our lips
it is because I hear a man climb stairs
and clear his throat outside our door

— Leonard Cohen, from "Poem"
in Let Us Compare Mythologies

The expenditure is worth it
you contend,
hundreds for a train
that stank of fish,
a hotel with no TV,
the cost of wine and dining
and the tip we never left,
lapping lukewarm lattes
under awnings of cafés.

Yes, I too have heard the stories
of his coming,
every so often,
to his haunts in Montréal,
the bridge that spans the river
though we argue on which one,

the kiosk in the market
where Suzanne was given birth,
amid the lemons
and yellow beans,
the singer seeing the sun
in all those tints
and tones of fruit,
how its setting were tangerines,
the moon a whitish melon
giving muse.

I dispute your speculation,
say the woman
the tune was named for
didn't cook
or squeeze a lime,
that you've confused her
with someone else,
a silent, unnamed mistress
from a stanza
of his Poem.

We can always look
for her,
her features gone to prune,
dentures getting stuck
on autumn apples,

purple veins
about her calves
and swollen feet
that scrape the ground
around her cane,

measuring up
to Marianne,
her existence
only words
without a song.

Andreas Gripp

Monday, 7 November 2016

Recent and Upcoming Readings

Upcoming Live Readings

January 12, 2017  King's University College (Spriet Learning Commons, King's Student Life Centre), London, Ont., 10:30am 
w/ Carrie Lee Connel, Tom Cull, Jan Figurski

Recent Live Readings

November 5, 2016 WordsFest London Local Authors BookFair open mic
October 5, 2016 London Open Mic Poetry Night, Mykonos, London, Ont. (open mic portion)
October 1, 2016 Culture Days Open Mic (London Poetry Slam) Museum London
September 27, 2016 Another London Anthology Launch, Root Cellar, London, Ont.
August 13 2016 Mantis Arts & Eco Festival, Boler Mountain, London, Ont.
June 24 2016 Couplets Reading Series, Chapters, London, Ont. (w/ Koral Scott)
June 4 2016  Nuit Blanche (London Poetry Slam), London, Ont.
June 1 2016  London Open Mic Poetry Night, Mykonos, London, Ont. (open mic portion)
March 2 2016 London Open Mic Poetry Night, Mykonos, London, Ont. (Feature Reading)
February 2016 St. James Westminster Anglican Church, London, Ont.
February 2016 London Open Mic Poetry Night, Mykonos, London, Ont. (open mic portion)
January 2016 Sundown Tea, London, Ont. (w/ Dorothy Nielsen, Carrie Lee Connel & others)

Sunday, 6 November 2016

WordsFest London Weekend

several of my books, along with other Harmonia Press titles, are available this weekend at WordsFest London (happening at Museum London). Hope to see you :)

Saturday, 22 October 2016

clip of poetry reading at Mykonos

Recorded on October 5, 2016. My poems "Hamilton Road" (from Another London : poems from a city still searching for itself) and "On Your Beauty" (taken from Selected Poems : 2000-2016) ...

Here is the link:

Saturday, 8 October 2016

Day Dreams by Andreas Gripp -- press release

Day Dreams  
A dozen odd stories by Andreas Gripp 

12 somewhat bizarre tales. The author of 21 books of poetry, this is London, Ontario writer Andreas Gripp’s first collection of short fiction. 

The way you described it, it sounded so surreal: around eight years old, arms at his side, stiff and unmoving, hair unkempt, almost Einstein-esque in dishevelment, clothes sooted and ragged, face smudged so that he looked like “Pig Pen” from the Peanuts strip. I mentioned that “Pig Pen” looked just like Charlie Brown but that he was even far worse off. At least Chuck had a bath and parents who saw to it that his clothes were pressed and clean; an easy job, really, considering that he donned the same striped shirt every day. I almost see “Pig Pen” as that which Charlie Brown might someday become – an older version, though, slovenly and drunk, standing on street corners panning for change, bitter and jaded by the cards that life had dealt him. 

– excerpt from “Mrs. Peterson, the boy who stands at the corner isn’t your son”  

Andy was fully aware that in this form of media, cost-cutting was a sobering reality, but WZRA not providing even the latest headlines and sports scores was an obvious affront to his city’s airwaves. In fact, Andy had taken to opening a window (despite the heated signage that warned against doing so), sticking his head out, looking to the western horizon, and formulating his own weather forecast. Really, how much would it have cost to hire a part-time meteorologist, replacing Cheryl, the previous one who abruptly stopped showing up for work?  Come to think of it, Andy thought the whole station would soon be automated. His was the last live show by a live host that wasn’t some repeated, syndicated program or the dreaded,  aforementioned loop of cheesy songs.  

– excerpt from “Hey DJ”  

Available from 

61 pp. / Trade Paperback / 5 ½ x 8 ½  $10.00 ISBN 978-1-927734-12-4 Harmonia Press / Autumn 2016  Contact: 

To order Day Dreams by Andreas Gripp: please visit the Harmonia Press Book Order Page

If you live in London, Ontario, Day Dreams, as well as other Harmonia Press titles, are available at Oxford Bookshop and Brown & Dickson Booksellers.

On Your Beauty

a new broadside. This was my last poem read this past Wednesday night at Mykonos. Click on the pic for the larger, easier-to-see version ...

Monday, 3 October 2016

Recent reading pics

Harmonia Press Launch for Autumn Releases
Root Cellar, London, Ontario
September 27, 2016 

Culture Days London Poetry Slam Open Mic
Museum London
October 1, 2016

Sunday, 25 September 2016

New Book of Short Stories & Flash Fiction

Day Dreams by Andreas Gripp, a collection of twelve short stories and flash fiction, is now available to order via the Harmonia Press book order page

The following stories make up the collection:

1. Mrs. Peterson, the boy who stands on the corner isn’t your son     

2.   With the Mortgage Paid and a Sizeable Inheritance, Why Walk Into the Outside World?        

3. Blank Notebooks                                                          

4. Captain Fish Face and the Rusty, Saltwater Tank    

5. Columbia, 33 1/3                                                     

6. A Conspiracy Theorist Challenges His Fuck Buddy to Another 
Round of “Name That Tune”           

7. Random Chance                                                      

8. En Route to the Common Place                              

9. The Extras                                                               

10. One Tough Giant                                                     

11. Hey DJ!              

12. The After Solstice

Tuesday, 13 September 2016

Blank Notebooks: Flash Fiction / Prose Poem

Blank Notebooks

     When you’re a writer, people tend to give you blank notebooks as gifts. Sometimes, you also see one in a shop with an enticing cover, one with a picture of a painting by Matisse, for instance, or a Viennese café with old world artists discussing philosophy and love over cups of cappuccino with strips of cherry strudel by their side, and you buy these hardcover books of empty, lined pages and then realize, after the euphoric moment of purchase has passed, that you’ve sentenced yourself to filling it with poetry or prose whether you want to or not.

     There’s nothing more demoralizing than having an entire row of virgin journals on the shelf, accentuating your failure to do what you’d promised yourself and/or others in your usual boastful manner. Sometimes, to lessen the sting of their spotting, you scatter them about your abode – one in the dresser, for example, and another under the bathroom sink, where it may garner dampness and mould, making it unworthy to write in.

     And that’s when your conniving hits its stride, the excuse you’ve been looking for to avoid telling your immediate circle of individuals that you’ve had writer’s block or have spent too much time on the sofa watching reality television  or  were just too lazy to get the job started never mind done; that all the caffeine in the universe couldn’t stain the pages with ink; that you were secretly hoping that termites would infest your place and that they were hungry for paper and bookbinder’s glue and you could show everyone the tattered red ribbon they left behind, that it was placed near the end of your magnum opus, the great dystopian novel where the world runs out of trees because madness gripped the poet and he was unable to stop his scribbling even when pens were smashed to bits by the masses and he grew sickly and pale from frantically jotting things down with his cut finger and what remained of his blood.   

Andreas Gripp

Tuesday, 28 June 2016

Monday, 20 June 2016

Couplets Reading w/ Koral Scott on June 24th

Friday, June 24th, 2016
Chapters, 1037 Wellington Rd. South
London, Ontario
Free Admission
Koral Scott & Andreas Gripp 
Couplets Reading Series

Sunday, 5 June 2016

Japanese Robot

Dr. Zimmer’s acquisition
caused his colleagues
to stop and wonder:

a single man, never wed,
never telling tales of
love and sex,
and now, living with this
curvy, comely being
made of wires in lieu of veins,
simulated layer of skin,
synthetic stream of hair.

Sue-Lin, her name, she has a name
he’d say, always emphasizing
she, never it,

and when we came to visit,
she was seated at the table,
greeting us with a blink,
a nod and a gracious smile;

and yes, he still did all the cleaning,
and yes, he spoke so very gently,
complimenting her,

even singing happy birthday
when we all sat down for cake
(which we never saw her eat);

and yes, hers was a separate bed,
in a separate room, and he always knocked
first, he told us, never touched her
without consent,

wrote some verse for her
in English,
awaiting her translation,
marvel she’d uncover
all his metaphors for love:

She was never really programmed
for either poetry or passion.

Andreas Gripp

Friday, 3 June 2016

As Spring Yields to Summer

I only see her when she’s out,
the woman across the way,
pushing her lawnmower
that has no engine,
the grating of squeaky wheels,
its whirling, rusty blades,
the sound of a hundred haircuts.
A fumeless, slicing symphony,
the grass wafting fresh
and green.

Day and night
through my windowsill
and all is
as it should be:

cat eyes narrow to slits
at the first burst of light,
squirrels play tag,
bumblebees collect, send static
through the afternoon,

dogs howl at three-quarter moons
and backyard Copernicans
at the shadows on lunar scars.

A couple kiss and rock
on gently swinging seats,
embrace, sigh into sleep,
and dawn comes back again,
announced by startled yawns
and singing larks.

As Spring yields to Summer,
tulips slump head-first,
vibrancy fades, reds go rose,
goldenrod yellows,
joining the ordinary
around us.

There’s my neighbour
riding his bicycle, narrowly missed
by a milk truck,
Ms. April May receiving delivery,
twice weekly, half a quart,
that, and measurements
long thought dead
still heaving
their penultimate breath.

Andreas Gripp

Friday, 27 May 2016

Monday, 2 May 2016

Sunday, 1 May 2016

Archived Poetry Books

My poetry books are digitally archived on The Internet Archive. You can find my Selected Poems here:

You can also find Selected Poems and other titles on Scribd

Also digitally available here: Google Books

Print titles of my poetry book are archived at:

Library and Archives Canada 
D.B. Weldon Library, Western University
London Room, London Public Library
The Library of Congress  
The British Library
The Library of Scotland
Poets House in New York City

-- Andreas Gripp

Saturday, 30 April 2016

Thursday, 28 April 2016

Harmonia Press

If you're looking for my poetry books and updates, you can find them on my publisher's website ...


please click on the broadside above for the larger version

April Bulmer's latest launching on Hidden Brook

Deeply emotive and personal, April Bulmer’s latest collection of poems, And With Thy Spirit, treads gently amid visions from past events in the author’s present life as well as previous, indigenous incarnations with sublime, ethereal language and a weaving of the spiritual/corporeal. Freshly explored feelings, familial interaction and dialogue, prayer, and corresponding images from the natural and supernatural worlds are presented in Bulmer’s reverent narrative and feminist Christology, that, in its depth, clarity and accessible voice, continues to elevate her writing among those of the very best that Canada offers in 21st-century poetry.   

– Andreas Gripp

April Bulmer

Spring Fever

That season I opened
like the earth.
My hair long and loose.
Teepee warm with
smoke and herb.
My feet wet with Mother dirt.
I danced to the drum of my heart.
My man on the hunt
quick as bird.
I dreamt of wolf.
She brought pups
to the tent, moist with blood
and the moon came too.
Her light opened like a ragged bloom.
My shadow stretched across shadows
all that blue.

taken from And With Thy Spirit 
©2016 April Bulmer

If you are in the Toronto area on Sunday May 22nd ...

Meeting Boris

Bringing out an oldie as Poetry Month winds down ...
Please click on the broadside for the larger version

Wednesday, 27 April 2016

Remembering Vic Elias: 10 years later

A great influence on me and my poetic journey came from Chicago-born, London Ontario poet Vic Elias. A much-beloved Professor of Applied Mathematics at Western University, Vic was also the author of 4 wonderful books of poetry. His poems also appeared throughout the years in various literary journals including locally-published Afterthoughts (which ran from 1994 through 2000). His reading style was candid and engaging, funny and poignant. He was also a very thoughtful and kind human being. He passed away as a result of cancer back in the Spring of 2006.

On the Transmigration of the Soul
of a Jewish Child

Every night
my Nathan cries out,
a two-year-old
strangling in a dream
I cannot wake him fully
He screams with open eyes,
his legs a fury of kicks into the wall

In my dreams of Warsaw, 1943,
I hold a pillow to his face until the wall
is untroubled by his feet

©1998 Vic Elias
published in Afterthoughts XII

Junior-Congregation Job

It's all tidied up by the end:
new children, restored health, doubled riches
vindication from unctuous comforters
and (where was I when the world was made?) 
a verbose whirlwind whose adamance betrays
a guilty conscience

outside this narrative
are neglected graves

a continent whose house dust
is human ash. On Yom Kippur

I read the storybook version of Job
to newer Jewish children

wishing for hot coals
to touch my lips

©2004 Vic Elias

Elena's Mother

She lies 
voluptuous in satin
no Mona Lisa cupidity
playing upon her lips

The priest's untamed beard
and shoulder-length hair
predate any Summer of Love
predate praesidium and Soviet and cell
He intones the ancient Slavic words
to ease this soul's passage to Christ
leaving us unBelievers
rigid and silent
as icons

There is no melody in 
this sacerdotal chanting
save that of wild wind
across vanished steppes
the plodding of bare feet
through autumnal mud
four wars ago

The priest swings a censer
in rhythm with his prayers

Each swing 
ends in a puff
of camphor smoke

a sweet savour to please 
older and earthier deities

and yes, to keep us
from smelling death

©2004 Vic Elias

poems 2 and 3 taken from Drinking with Old Men
published by South Western Ontario Poetry, 2004

Tuesday, 26 April 2016

Rishma Dunlop 1956-2016

photo: York University / Rishma Dunlop

Rishma Dunlop, a gifted poet and professor at York University, passed away this month after a long battle with cancer. She gave a memorable reading at Poetry London back in 2006 and I was deeply impressed with her poems and her eloquence. She had been a recepient of the Emily Dickinson Prize for Poetry as well as being received as a Fellow of the Royal Society of Canada.

In additon to being an editor of several literary anthologies, Rishma Dunlop authored five books of poetry including Lover Through Departure: New and Selected Poems (Mansfield Press, 2011).

Small things

Small things keep you safe:
prayers like the Japanese tie to trees,
clasp of your child’s hand,
angels at the gates of your city,
schedules of commuter trains.

Until the blasted church,
machete massacres,
rush hour bombs on subways,
carnage that is the failure of love.
Clothed in our convictions,
we feel our brains slip,
in every bone the fossil of murder,
illness we cannot vomit up
a hurt so fierce it takes more than
all human grief to beat it down.

You see the exact perspective of
loss as a fading pencil study,
loved one’s features blur, smudged detail,
clouds of centuries pass over the image,
through cross-hatched strokes
only a wrist in forced memory remains,
a hand caressing.

In the archives of accusations,
vengeance and the unforgiven,
we are nailed together, flying the black
flag of ourselves.

The farmer continues to till his fields.
In the city we awaken, turn off alarm clocks,
drink our coffee, kiss our lovers and children,
begin again at the train stations, at bus stops,
briefcases in hand.

In deafness to political speech
the eye permits change.
You imagine words fit for a newborn.

Touch me. In the burned city,
we have become beautiful.

Love’s no secret now.

©Rishma Dunlop 2005
from Metropolis, published by Mansfield Press

Rishma Dunlop website:

Friday, 22 April 2016

2nd edition of Selected Poems

Featuring several new poems, the 2nd edition of Selected Poems, 2000-2016, is available to order from the Harmonia Press website

Gravity (a poem for Earth Day)


The earth has learned the virtue
of turning the other cheek,

of letting bygones be,
of being slow to wrath.

Sure, she has 
her bouts of temper,
her quakes and lava flows,
her pelts of bruising hail
and her roar 
of whipping winds,

but when all is duly said,
when we’ve torn 
her groves of hair
out from her crown
of muddied hills,

when her lungs 
are filled with soot,

her pools of sight 
with sludge,

she refuses 
to let us go,
let us float 
to cosmic realms
where we’d meet 
our dying breath,

thereafter start 
her time of healing.

Perhaps she simply needs 
our presence,

the sound 
of Celtic harps
within her caves,

the times 
we’re not so bad
and shower love
upon her babes,

the pups, 
the kittens,

the birth
of a million birds
who soar like kites 
on her many strings.

Andreas Gripp