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Poems By Poet Anthony Weir  9/23/2014 9:21:07 AM
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  Best Poems From
  ANTHONY WEIR (13th September 1941)
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Deep Down

most of us are desperately superficial.
How can we think our way out of problems
when our problems arise from
the fact that we think?

(How do I fit the square peg of my
self-importance into the round
hole of my sense of futility, renouncing
both sadness and self?)

Time is god, is love
is sightless, dumb
creates. destroys
and tells us only
that we are noise.
Anthony Weir




In just one respect they tend to deviate.
In other ways they earnestly collaborate,
conform depressingly.
The same is true of dissidents and poets.

Almost every day I feel that I'm
the only person who's awake,
while other people are sleepwalking
the world to nightmare:
the long, bad time for poetry
now born of its dung.

The trickle of blood is time
('O ancient, crimson curse! ')
Surviving birth was my third crime.

Although the 'Nuclear Winter'
would have been the gentler way
to kill the world we fundamentally resent,
the Bible-blood of history
and very recent history has shown
that war is justifiable
only to unreason and testosterone.
Anthony Weir



Doors of Estrangement - a song for the Ghost of Jacques Brel

When you're strange
the glamour
of the world is
always out of range.
You stammer.

People who are feared
are never free from fear,
go very soon insane.
All of us are losers
in a world hijacked by gain.

When you're strange
the douceur of the world
is always
out of range.

Our minds are dirty cages
crammed with beasts in pain.

When you're strange you bite
the barbed-wire of your brain.
Anthony Weir



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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loss poems
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war poems
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Poems By Poet Anthony Weir