Thoughts Of Baz Scribblings of an Accidental Poet

By Barry Larkins

Describing how I began to write poetry involves my relationship with my Father, he wrote poetry too. After his death the family decided to collect all his poems, which were scattered far and wide, and give them to my Mother in the form of a book.

That process is what started me writing, the shock for me was that I wrote anything at all. In the Preface I write 'I'm not the sort to write poetry, people like me aren't poets, I'm a mans' man, not given to sentimentallity, gushy flowery expressions and deep meaningful thoughts.'

My poems are written in plain language and are easy to understand, some have won awards and have received crital acclaim from other published poets and writers.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Barry Larkins
• Release date: Apr 12, 2013
• ISBN: 9780957613416

Barry Larkins

Many writers probably started like me with nightschool classes in creative writing,this progressed when I collected my father's poems, the story is the preface to my first book of poems which explains how I got started.Many of my poems have won awards and short stories too.I continue to write, mostly short stories, although I am writing a biography of a relatives diaries from WWII. Ideas for novels are also in the production line.

Book preview

I wasn’t there when he died; I didn’t even know he was ill. True he’d been in hospital with a burst ulcer but he’d got over that.

We were on holiday at the time, the Isle of Wight, and the first intimation that something was wrong was the note through the letter box from my sister. Ring Me it said. You can imagine, having crossed on the car ferry and driven all the way North, what time it was and then all the mail and rubbish that had piled up how a note might get lost. By the time I found it the next question was can I ring some one at this time of night?

The cremation was all that you would expect. Mum was crying as were my two sisters, even my brothers had dampness around the eyes. I didn’t and I’ve never understood why. I cry at sad parts in films though I try to hide it, I even cry while reading a book sometimes but I didn’t cry at my Father’s funeral.

Dad wrote poems, mostly about family and friends, occasionally about things that mattered to him, and we were coming up to my Mother’s seventy fifth birthday. Someone suggested gathering all Dads’ poems together and creating a book as a birthday gift, I volunteered to type them on my computer. It was while doing this my Mum, it wasn’t going to be a surprise, gave me a triangular piece of paper, the fold down flap from an envelope with two lines on that was to have a profound influence on many of my waking hours and most of my sleepless ones.

I still don’t understand why Dads’ funeral didn’t affect me more. Maybe it was him dying while we were away. Maybe it was my attitude to him from the time back around 1960 when I’d gone home to find my Mother and Sisters crying, my Brothers stony-faced just sitting saying nothing.

What’s going on? I’d asked a little alarmed.

Dad was sat in his chair next to, and watching, the television one ear cupped in his hand due to his deafness. One look at his face said all I needed to know.

Because of his deafness Dad would have the TV sound fairly loud in spite of his hearing aid.