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One of the poems
A Fan
Too many flaws: my
poems less fresh than tinned
but he was one who
would never let me fail.
His first sedative
gust of praise turned
into an imperious
fountain, would not pause,
he pointing out
nuances I didn’t intend
and I smiled Cheese
until I became stale
and I thought of
luminous William Blake
enthusing, ‘That
is sheer genius,’
and Constable
replying, ‘Gosh, and there’s me
thinking it was only
a painting.’
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