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Poems By Poet Anthony Weir  12/18/2014 2:57:34 PM
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  Best Poems From
  ANTHONY WEIR (13th September 1941)
 
 

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  1.     

'The scent of these armpits is an aroma finer than Prayer' (Walt Whitman)

I dreamed.
I woke in tenderness.
I dreamed of tenderness
as a ripe plum squirting
down my beard – tenderness
that turned to tide
which flowed through both of us
and in which we floated
through our cuddle-space
wherein our snug adhesion
the unseen ballet of our tongues
the breath shared by each other's lungs
were part of an epiphanic lace
of delicate and gorgeous things
that we in sacred, shared
humility presented to each other
as sweet kings –
and the smiling
exuberantly-bearded sun
was his
life-giving face.
 
Anthony Weir
   
 

   
   
 

  2.     

The Motto of Capitalism: Enough Is Not Enough

The animal garden
Is now a murder-hole.
Language was always the Labyrinth.
Civilisation is striving, spurning
starving, burning
mass graves and marble tombs,
wonderful wine and no-one to drink it with
but the Black Riders
the achievers, civilised dealers
in death, machine-mad
half-controlling the machine.
They are the forms of desire
(suppression of grace, the soul's death)
stencils of men,
power-bleak, power-black
teeth in the maw
of perpetual war
against Nature and grace

as the planet of pain and vainglory
hurtles through space.
 
Anthony Weir
   
 

   
   
 

  3.     

A Dublin Poem

At the Conference of
Poetry Police
An observer who claimed
That a tree was worth
A thousand poets
Was declared mentally ill
And unfit to work at
The paper-mill.
 
Anthony Weir
   
 

   
   
 

  4.     

Duendes - self-realization at the age of sixty-one

This is the next-best sex: nobody
used, disappointed, or hurt - and no-one
engendered by my spermless ejaculate.
A rug by the fire, the moon
shining through the window, 'Verklδrte Nacht' playing,
pictures of hairy men kissing, hairy men squirting:
nobody used, nobody hurt, no misconnection.
Duende of climax

within a duende of solitude
like the greater duende of forest, of river
of peaceful and beautiful place
achingly real and not dependent
on hope or falsehood or people -

only dependent on something like grace...
 
Anthony Weir
   
 
 

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Poems By Poet Anthony Weir