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Best Famous David Gascoyne Poems


Here is a collection of the all-time best famous David Gascoyne poems. This is a select list of the best famous David Gascoyne poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous David Gascoyne poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of David Gascoyne poems.

Search for the best famous David Gascoyne poems, articles about David Gascoyne poems, poetry blogs, or anything else David Gascoyne poem related using the PoetrySoup search engine at the top of the page.

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by Barry Tebb |

NEW YEAR POEM

 For Jeremy Reed



Rejection doesn’t lead me to dejection

But to inspiration via irritation

Or at least to a bit of naughty new year wit-

Oh isn’t it a shame my poetry’s not tame

Like Rupert’s or Jay’s - I never could

Get into their STRIDE just to much pride

To lick the arses of the poetry-of-earthers

Or the sad lady who runs KATABASIS from the back

Of a bike, gets shouted at by rude parkies

And writing huffy poems to prove it...



Oh to be acceptable and

IN THE POETRY REVIEW

Like Lavinia or Jo

With double spreads

And a glossy colour photo

Instead I’m stuck in a bus queue at Morden

London’s meridian point of zero imagination

Actually it’s a bit like ACUMEN with the Oxleys

Boasting about their 150,000 annual submissions-

If what they print’s the best God help the rest...)

At least my Christmas post had - instead of a card

From Jeremy Reed - his ELEGY FOR DAVID GASCOYNE -

The best poem I’ve had by post in forty years

And Jeremy’s best to date in my estimate -

The English APOLLINAIRE - your ZONE, your SONG

OF THE BADLY LOVED - sitting in a cafe in South End Green

I send you this poem, Jeremy, sight unseen,

A new year’s gift to you, pushing through

To star galaxies still unmapped and to you, BW,

Sonneteer of silence, huddled in the fourth month

Of your outdoor vigil, measuring in blood, tears and rain

Your syllable count in hour-glass of pain.


by Barry Tebb |

POEM TO BE PLACED IN A BOTTLE AND CAST OUT TO SEA

 for Ken Kesey and his merry pranksters in a bus called ‘Further...’





Dear _______ and here’s where the problem begins

For who shall I address this letter to?

Friends are few and very special, muses in the main

I must confess, the first I lost just fifty years ago.

Perhaps the best.



I searched for years and wrote en route

‘Bridge Over the Aire’ after that vision and that voice

“I am here. I am waiting”. I followed every lead

Margaret Gardiner last heard of in the Falmouth’s

Of Leeds 9, early fifties. Barry Tebb your friend from then

Would love to hear from you.”



The sole reply

A mis-directed estimate for papering a bungalow

In Penge. I nearly came unhinged as weeks

Ran into months of silence. Was it. I wondered.

A voice from the beyond?



The vision was given

Complete with backcloth of resplendent stars

The bridge’s grey transmuted to a sheen of pearl

The chipped steps became transparent stairs to heaven

Our worn clothes, like Cinders’ at the ball, cloaks and gowns

Of infinite splendour but only for the night, remember!

I passed the muse’s diadem to Sheila Pritchard,

My genius-child-poet of whom Redgrove said

“Of course, you are in love” and wrote for her

‘My Perfect Rose!’



Last year a poet saw it

In the British Council Reading Room in distant Kazakstan

And sent his poems to me on paper diaphanous

As angels’ wings and delicate as ash

And tinted with a splash of lemon

And a dash of mignonette.



I last saw Sheila circa nineteen sixty seven

Expelled from grammar school wearing a poncho

Hand-made from an army blanket

Working a stall in Kirkgate Market.



Brenda Williams, po?te maudit if ever,

By then installed as muse number three

Grew sadly jealous for the only time

In thirty-seven years: muse number two

Passed into the blue



There is another muse, who makes me chronologically confused.

Barbara, who overlaps both two and three

And still is there, somewhere in Leeds.

Who does remember me and who, almost alone.

Inspired my six novellas: we write and

Talk sometimes and in a crisis she is there for me,



Muse number four, though absent for a month in Indonesia.

Remains. I doubt if there will be a fifth.



There is a poet, too, who is a friend and writes to me

From Hampstead, from a caf? in South End Green.

His cursive script on rose pink paper symptomatic

Of his gift for eloquent prose and poetry sublime

His elegy on David Gascoyne’s death quite takes my breath

And the title of his novel ‘Lipstick Boys’ I'll envy always,



There are some few I talk and write to

And occasionally meet. David Lambert, poet and teacher

Of creative writing, doing it ‘my way’ in the nineties,

UEA found his services superfluous to their needs.



? ? you may fuck like hell,

But I abhor your jealous narcissistic smell

And as for your much vaunted pc prose

I’d rather stick my prick inside the thorniest rose.



Jeanne Conn of ‘Connections’ your letters

are even longer than my own and Maggie Allen

Sent me the only Valentine I’ve had in sixty years

These two do know my longings and my fears,



Dear Simon Jenner, Eratica’s erratic editor, your speech

So like the staccato of a bren, yet loaded

With a lifetime’s hard-won ken of poetry’s obscurest corners.

I salute David Wright, that ‘difficult deaf son’

Of the sixties, acknowledged my own youthful spasm of enthusiasm

But Simon you must share the honour with Jimmy Keery,

Of whom I will admit I’m somewhat leery,

His critical acuity so absolute and steely.



I ask you all to stay with me

Through time into infinity

Not even death can undo

The love I have for you.