Biography of Kathleen Griffin
Of Irish-American ancestry, as three grandparents came from Limerick City in County Limerick, and one from Cappasail, near Ballinasloe, County Galway. Educated in parochial and public schools in Manhattan and the Bronx; B.A. English and minor history, Pace University 1983; M.A. Southern Illinois University at Carbondale 1984; doctoral coursework completed at Boston University 1986, but degree not completed. From 1988 to present adjunct assistant professor at Pace University, and have taught at Fordham University, City College of New York, Hunter College. Interests include travel (Ireland, England, Italy, Turkey, Greece, Austria): cats; needlework (crochet, needlepoint, crewel) .
Kathleen Griffin's Works:
Grave of an Amiable Child (XLibris 1998) .
Kathleen Griffin Poems
Forever alien in this pleasant land, the hyphenated ones, with double home long after generations should demand a single eye should cease to roam
A Water-Colored World
For James Schuyler I had wanted to write your elegy on the subway,
Now Charles’ Wain hangs pendant in the sky this clear, cold night. Folklore made the King and Emperor a saint at times, or pictured farming the far and stony reaches there on high
Hollow as a seashell and as washed in light, Caecelia Metella’s tomb lies open to the sun, her self
A Beautiful Fez
A beautiful fez stained with iridescent sweat, dappled by muddy rains, is perched at a jaunty angle
Pound At St. Elizabeth's
A clear monastic cell, a single bunk, small desk, and the crates still warm with the California sun- smell of oranges
Rose petals litter the subway car on the Saturday morning. Spilled from the full bouquets of the flushed and happy
The limestone crumbles under our scrabbling feet, the fossil starfish glimmer just out of sight.
They line the bridge of angels, line the streets, sell golly-woggles by the Trevi, fake designer bags on mats
Pyramid Of Cestus
At the foot of the Aventine the Protestant cemetery, and the ultimate tourist souvenir where Cestus was buried.
Transmogrified, the moggies thrive among the columns. Was the unknown temple
Grey-green industrial cleaner miscalled the Tiber washes around the frozen ship of Aesculapius
So lonesome a ghost I’d be, presuming I ever dared to haunt you at all; none of your grand ghosts to brag of, just a chill in the back hall.
The Rule Of Names
Wrapped in a Russian army cloak and the coarse cheesecloth of legend, I fell in love with the onion domes
Now Charles’ Wain hangs pendant in the sky
this clear, cold night. Folklore made the King
and Emperor a saint at times, or pictured farming
the far and stony reaches there on high
among the scattered stars, his task marked by
the homely farm-cart. What fantastic thing
in all his life could any chanson sing
that would compare with this immortality?