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This poem is taken from PN Review 224, Volume 41 Number 6, July - August 2015.

From Du Bellay: The Regrets Philip Terry

I’m not going to theorise about the human genome,
I’m not going to ask about big data,
I’m not going to draw a plan of future media,
Nor do I propose to explore the mud of the Colne with robotic fish.
I don’t paint my pictures in such rich colours,
Or seek such lofty subjects for my verse.
Keeping an eye on shit that happens, the bad, the worse,
I take a pen, or chalk, and write what comes.
I moan right here if I have something to moan about,
Make a joke of it or, if I wish to act the whistleblower, speak out loud,
In the sure knowledge that no-one ever reads poems.
I don’t tart them up to look presentable at award ceremonies,
Knackered times require knackered words,
But regard them as no more than minutes or blogs.


More learned men than I (Canton) will philosophise
With Macfarlane perched in the bole of a tree

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