Not sure I'd even heard of the poet Barry Tebb until today, but I've been burrowing around on his website with growing enthusiasm.
Born in 1942 and admired for his early work, he was, it seems, creatively blocked for twenty-five years until the dam burst in the mid-Nineties, since when he's been in full spate. And the metaphor's apt, as his poems are torrential - frank, intimate, passionate, cantankerous, enraged.
You might not call them exquisitely honed and polished, but there's none of the usual mucking about - no tricksiness, no cop-out irony, no hint that the poet is journeying rapidly up his own fundament.
This guy's saying what he means, and though the story that emerges may be painful and controversial, boring it ain't. See what you think.
Born in 1942 and admired for his early work, he was, it seems, creatively blocked for twenty-five years until the dam burst in the mid-Nineties, since when he's been in full spate. And the metaphor's apt, as his poems are torrential - frank, intimate, passionate, cantankerous, enraged.
You might not call them exquisitely honed and polished, but there's none of the usual mucking about - no tricksiness, no cop-out irony, no hint that the poet is journeying rapidly up his own fundament.
This guy's saying what he means, and though the story that emerges may be painful and controversial, boring it ain't. See what you think.
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