I'm sad to report that Bill Griffiths has died. He was an extraordinary poet. There's a little bit of news here on Tom Raworth's site.

that's very sad news to hear.. a fine poet, and accomplished anglosaxonist.

his words will be missed..

Bill's obituary in today's Independent.

http://news.independent.co.uk/people/obitu...icle2979870.ece

Bill's obituary in today’s Guardian:

http://www.guardian.co.uk/obituaries/story...2174637,00.html

The Times obituary appears today 13th November:

http://www.timesonline.co.uk/tol/comment/o...icle2857764.ece

Bill Griffiths
A Commemoration
Saturday 17th November.
2-5 pm

Council Room, Birkbeck College,
Malet Street, London WC1

Recordings of Bill's words and music.

Readings and tributes by Allen Fisher, John Griffiths, Jennifer Cobbing, Ken Edwards, Keith Musgrove, John Seed, Geraldine Monk, Alan Halsey, Samantha Paxton, Nicholas Johnson, Gavin Selerie, Paula Claire, Ulli Freer, Clive Bush, Steve Clews, Clive Fencott, Steve Cox, Harry Gilonis, Sean Bonney and Will Rowe.

Music by Bartok, Brahms and Bach.

Displays of Bill's work.

Plus the launch of
The Salt Companion to Bill Griffiths
edited by Will Rowe

Refreshments. All welcome.

About 60 people crammed into the Council Room at Birkbeck on Malet Street for the celebration of Bill's work. Family, friends, collaborators, publishers, pianists, it was an astonishing collection of people. We discovered Bill's work in Old Welsh, his riddle writing in Anglo Saxon, learned of his piano collecting (he was a formidable pianist). There was one discovery of a 14 foot long piece of writing for multiple voices, another of a wall sized collage made from a Thai boxing poster. We heard John Seed reading in Durham dialect some of Bill's anthologies of poetry from the working classes. We heard prison and biker poems, poems from Bill's days of living on a house boat. We learned of the scholarship ranging from a love of Brahms to German churches, from 17th century recipes for oat cakes, to Battenburg cake and obscure sweets. It felt at times, like everyone in the room had put Bill up for long spells as he made himself comfortable. There were tears from a niece over his kindness to children, there was a half tale from his brother about a disturbed international phonecall in 1974 drawing the family back together, and memories of court and prison. There were paintings, found objects, a vast array of small press printing material from booklets and pamphlets to books, posters -- a sea of creative output. We heard of the improvisations, the red Doc Martin boots, the motorbikes, the smoke-filled study and paper-strewn family home. And there was Bill's voice, calmly reading between rings of a little hand bell. Bill was able to talk to anyone at their level and support people from all walks of life. There in that cram-packed room, between the nods of recognition, the occasional tears, I think we saw what a dissenting, affirming and recklessly creative life Bill had.