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Best Famous Barry Tebb Poems

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 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.
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 **** 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.