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Poems By Poet Anthony Weir  7/31/2014 8:40:18 PM
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  Best Poems From
  ANTHONY WEIR (13th September 1941)
 
 
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  45.     

Armageddon, after all, is a fairly small hill

Just an ordinary day: ordinary people
work and do other usual things
in the landscape of screams.
The cleaners, the clergy,
child prostitutes, bookbinders, loss-adjusters,
judges...the rapists, the teachers,
mechanics, chiropodists, vivisectionists,
politicans, the police, the swindlers,
the imams, the accountants, the advertising-agency janitors,
the slaughterers of battery-chickens,
loblolly-men,
spies and shit-shifters, computer-programmers,
together (with many more) compose
the landscape of screams
as a jigsaw of horrible fragments of false dreams.

And why would the creator not despise us
as we despise dogs
our very own unnatural selection?
 
Anthony Weir
   
 

   
   
 

  46.     

As a Dream of a Night Vision

Because I look from outside out
terrified to look from inside in
I seem to come to life through burglary.

Puppet deliberately tangling my strings
so as to have to cut them,
I might thus fall from
rτle not to reality but grace
belongingness beyond longing
affinity beyond sex
conviviality beyond consumingness
of fire where spiders burn
and webs transmute to puppet-strings.

Because I take and take to things
things which I make magically
execute me
and I am only questioning and doubt
looking ineluctably from outside out.
 
Anthony Weir
   
 

   
   
 

  47.     

Beached

The sea constantly
ceaselessly conjugates
the verb 'to murmur'
sometimes very loudly
sometimes so quietly
that it's barely a rumour

And the white juices
flow
from black forces
below
and it conjugates 'to murmur'
lovingly and cold
cold and passionate
violent and cold

So we are told
who only dream the sea
desiring it dreamingly
seeming to be awake
and just out of reach
on the small fragile beach

where the shadows flap and shake.
 
Anthony Weir
   
 

   
   
 

  48.     

Beauty and Despair

The forest's lovely, dark and deep,
But I, unlovely human, have pale and
shallow promises to keep
to well-kept humans.
There is no gain but hurt
as we turn the planet called Earth
to the planet called Dirt,
the planet of pain.
And we are vanity & all in vain.

Every girl and every boy
is born with and robbed of
the secret of joy.
And not a thing will satisfy
Because we all are cut away
from our innate capacity
to be appropriate, attuned.

Poems
are pus from that terrible wound,
wound of wanting, dark and deep.
The woods are lovely…We explain
and turn experience to pain,
turn pain to planetary experience,
and we are vanity, and all in vain.
 
Anthony Weir
   
 
 
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Poems By Poet Anthony Weir