Biography of Barry Tebb
Barry Tebb is an English poet, publisher and author. He was born in Leeds, West Yorkshire in 1942.
His poetry was first published by Alan Tarling's 'Poet and Printer Press' in the sixties, along with Ted Hughes, Michael Longley and Iain Crichton Smith. His first collection was praised by John Carey in the New Statesman and his work was included in the Penguin anthology Children of Albion: Poetry of the Underground in Britain.
After a twenty-year writer's block he began to write again in 1990. Appalled by the state of poetry publishing he founded Sixties Press in 1993 which has published over forty books and pamphlets.
Barry Tebb Poems
We were three weeks Into term, Sheila, When you came
‘Leeds welcomes you' in flowers Garlanding the white stuccoed tower Of City Station: red on green
The Innocent Eye
I struggled through streets of Bricked-up, boarded-up houses, Mostly burned-out, keeping
My Perfect Rose
At ten she came to me, three years ago, There was ‘something between us' even then; Watching her write like Eliot every day,
TO MARGARET, UNFORGOTTEN
Two nights I have dreamed of you Once as an adolescent, evanescent Yet tangible still to the spirit's touch,
Apologies For Absence
Sorry, Neil Oram (with an orange in my pocket) I can't make ,your loch-side commune by bonny Drummadrochit.
A Hope For Poetry: Remembering The Sixti...
There was a hope for poetry in the sixties And for education and society, teachers free To do as they wanted: I could and did teach
To Daisy Abey
In sleep I dream the gratitude I know I cannot say Now you are in a latitude where palm trees hold the sway There are always things between us that keep getting in the way
New Year Poem
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
Dawn's my Mr Right, already Cocks have crowed, birds flown from nests, The neon lights of Leeds last night still
My Only Valentine
Your voice on the telephone Hushes the storm in my heart Lightning strikes twice
New Year Poem
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