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Poems By Poet Anthony Weir  11/27/2014 10:59:39 AM
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  Best Poems From
  ANTHONY WEIR (13th September 1941)
 
 
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  49.     

A Path in Lake Waters

Between the sleeping and the dreaming
Lie the landing and the boat
Between strange and stranger shore
A timeless lake
A floating door
A ferryman

The ancient guide
Manifest dream-master
Mythic ithyphallic bride

I am the dismembered masker
Orpheus come like ore
In the dazzling dark
The teeming maze of the mine
To drink the piss of the Minotaur

Though dreams like myths and stems entwine
We dream apart
Each drowning as we grasp the door
Abstract as thresholds
Scattered in the silent roar
 
Anthony Weir
   
 

   
   
 

  50.     

About Wisdom

O wisdom - enchanter - was I greedy for fame?
Did I lie and deceive to gain reputation
as your greatest servant?

Did I stoop to currying favour with worthless
people of position and power?
Did I worry about status or money?

For those who wish to retain their integrity
the only place to be is under your feet
and whether we wash or not, walk clothed or naked,
live or die,
is of utmost irrelevance.


2. AFTER A POEM ENTITLED 'SLAVE BOY'
by Yusuf ibn Harun al-Ramadi (died 1022 CE)

They shaved his head
to make him unattractive,
for his beauty made them
mean.

They wiped out the night.
They abandoned him to dawn.
 
Anthony Weir
   
 

   
   
 

  51.     

After the Sinking (portrait of Padraic Fiacc)

His daddy fought bitterly
'for Ireland' - rarely
at home - usually
on the run.

His auntie hoped a teddy
bear would keep him happy
or comfort him at any
rate - or at least keep him
quiet while she did what she
did for the cause
without a gun.

He pulled the arms and legs off
and shat upon the mutilated plush.
He met his mother for the first time
on the boat to America.
Now he is a whining, published poet
and a lush.

As he hugs me guiltily and almost tenderly
I tell him:
'Sex is only the tip of the iceberg...'
 
Anthony Weir
   
 

   
   
 

  52.     

April 2006 (in memoriam Sarah Teasdale)

What do I care in the cold winds and languor of spring
That my face and my frame are not I?
They are just furniture, but my poems are what I feel,
I am a vacuum, they are a cry.

Why should I care? My life will soon finish
And the world that was will be holocaust, flood and drought.
My heart is a birth-wound, my mind a protest, a shout,
And only at death will their pain and their noise diminish.

Through the years I have learned
How few men and ideas are worthy of trust.
I have seen my greatest love
Murdered, trampled in the dust,
And fears I never knew before
Burrow into my heart's core.
Hope little. Ask for less.
Who dares to talk of happiness!
 
Anthony Weir
   
 
 
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Poems By Poet Anthony Weir