I had the joy and pleasure of meeting and befriending Cork-based poet Frankie Griffin during my stay in Cork City, Ireland. And joy is an understatement.
Frankie and I bonded over a shared love for copious amounts of tobacco and coffee, as well as the idea that poetry is a form of blood-letting, a way of metaphorically slicing veins to release the bad stuff. We would meet and chat about life and exchange writings. In fact, it was Frankie who really pushed and inspired me to actually pursue my writing as a career, to get what I was creating and saying out there and into the world. For that I am forever grateful. But enough about me.
Frankie Griffin writes with the grit and honesty of a true maverick poet*, a living Bukowski who’s got a lot more to give, allowing a certain tenderness to emerge from the darkness. His…
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