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Poems By Poet Anthony Weir  10/31/2014 8:24:37 AM
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  Best Poems From
  ANTHONY WEIR (13th September 1941)
 
 
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  45.     

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
   
 

   
   
 

  46.     

Asperger meets Alzheimer

Every army is edible -
just fry or boil or bake.
In the Bar des Abattoirs
we talk about Fast Food
and churches, the mindless
wondrousness and relentless
logical absurdity of nature,
and pubic-genital tattoos.
I, le chien manquι, never lie
and never lock my house.
Nearing my demise,
the dirty emptiness of life behind me,
the pure nothingness of death in front,
the inexpensive Bar des Abattoirs
is my chosen nursing-home.

I don't know what age
I am, am of -
I share nothing with women or men
and dislike cities, loathe pubs.
Thinking of death and the error
of being human, I am the bearer
of unwelcome wisdom,
an angry ghost among the shrubs.

God's name is Frankenstein.
We are his monsters.
 
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.     

Canticles for U.G. Krishnamurti

My invisible, other true friend, Brother Zoti Lamort,
unknowable, ever-present, everywhere
like a vast four-dimensional carpet,
asks me silently why I have to be human,
why I, shunning destiny, laden down
with my great gift of sorrow, have to be?
Not because there is a possibility
of happiness! No, the idea of personal
happiness (and the hunter's pursuit) is the most
vain, destructive and self-destroying of concepts
strangling Earth and us with false urgency.

Not that I feel a duty to life the dictatorship, cosmic
catastrophe. Here in my chamber of raw
understanding, wrestling the language of
unutterability, I feel only too-muchness of being
and being one of millions too many.
I'm always wanting to leave both the state
and the chamber - and I'm rooted by both.

Not that we make ourselves happy by torturing
wiping out, exploiting, rounding up animals -
no, increasingly we - the endangering species -
herd and exploit each other, breed
young to disable in schools, denounce any sign
of spontaneous joy in each other.
No, we hate happiness,
seeing that, left to themselves, animals would be happy all over the place without us, thus showing us our soulless irrelevance.

No phenomenon here can possibly want us,
who confront everything with our words and our swords and, far worse, hypocrisy -
every one of us the enemy of everything
- all creatures guiltless but us
in the power of our shamelessness.
And we just once, like lightning or meteor
striking all other dimensions, and each of us once,
but so many millions, mirror-struck, striking
down everything sane and appropriate.

Dogs know that we live noisy irrational lives,
full of patterns and habits and unthinkingness.
The weight of our being's so gross that we are quite unaware of it – but the world is increasingly crushed
and squashed and dried up by us - like a prune
swarming with maggots - and we are here only to say: Home, Tower, Power, Ambition and Threshold.

More than ever subtlety falls away, connection
with Life driven out and replaced by the whimpering
urgency of things and stupidly urging,
hammering images. Happiness! Love! Success!
Driving ourselves to achievement, there is no-one
to praise us but Advertising,
for God was appalled when alive. The Angels are all bred for bacon and organs and sperm.
Praise the world to an Angel, and he squeals in the agony produceable only by devils of language.
Refugee peoples and gypsies and children and
pζdophiles are just a small part
of the tumult made by the Word.

I feel too much. I breathe in pain, and, novice, helplessly immature, can only breathe suffering out, cannot transmute it to anything like ‘beatitude’.
Joy is only the briefest suppression of pain.
Writing cannot be serious when all human culture’s
suppression of feeling in ruthless pursuit
of bizarre manifestations of the trivial,
just as religions are for the anti-spiritual
to justify their manufactured selves by,
and science is merely tearing wings off flies
to grow supremely grotesque on Buchenwald pigs.
Even my anguish is mere manufacture.

(Reading polemic or poetry is such a waste
of spirit and time, when all other creatures
- dolphin or mollusc - are poems
and cannot be other.)

Joy can only be given.
If a thing could be said to be happy
as slug or squirrel is happy,
that thing-happiness can be the only one possible
in world turned to slaughterhouse/smouldering rubbish-pit of Gehenna.
Nothing we do can be innocent,
for with the blind and backward maze of the mind
we turn everything wonderful terribly
into reflections of our terrible selves.
You my invisible friend, my desirable
Earth Spirit, Anti-angel,
you, beyond right or love or truth or happiness
were always right, always Perfect in your holiest
presence and insight.
And my dog, with his divine understanding
silently tells me each day that there is nothing
to understand for there is no - never was - understanding - and no lie is big enough
ever to justify us.

In Siberia people once lived who knew seven genders and never built megalith-cells for the dead
or dead calculations for dying.
In the Somme and Hiroshima pacifist worms
have recovered from holocaust.
I almost live. Might never have known...
Live in what? Neither my forgotten, trivial childhood nor the terrible, ever-commissioning future –
but on the present awareness of pain that I can neither transmute nor ignore.
And everything shrivels, and only the shame of humanity pours out of, dries up in my heart.
 
Anthony Weir
   
 
 
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Poems By Poet Anthony Weir