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Poems By Poet Anthony Weir  8/30/2014 11:27:15 PM
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  ANTHONY WEIR (13th September 1941)
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Coda (for Suchoon Mo)

Great is Death
We are his
urgent breath
his eager pus.
we're in the thick of life
we do not see him
in the thick of us.
Anthony Weir



Daily Suicide (after the Albanian of Bardhyl Londo)

We kill ourselves every day
At grubby tables in the caf
At the polluted racks of newspapers
In corrupt circles and sordid intrigues
We slowly kill ourselves
And of course we don't realise it.
Eventually the moment comes:
to take out the revolver -
but you can't pull the trigger
because you are already
a long time dead,
and it is well known that
the dead can't kill themselves.
Anthony Weir



Date with Death

Tonight I'm going on a date.
We are meeting up at eight.
A drink, and then I'll walk her home -
I won't keep her out too late.
Anthony Weir



Glosses on two poems by the Albanian poet Petro Marko (1913-91)


'Marrezi, turp
turp dhe mkate
per jeten e trbuar...'

Shame and rage
greed and pain:
life is a gaoler
bejewelled and vain.

Life made misery.
Life made Man.
In the wastes of desire
the grotesque can-can.

...as faliu ligjes sime,
bindu i mendur endrrtar...

'Wer, wenn ich schriee, hrte mich...? '

How can it possibly matter in which language I am unread?
Or, even if read, not understood?
The warmth and the words of the dead are my comfort,
the greatest intimacy our grief beyond time
and its terror and hatred and bitterness.

Along the valley of death I've always been walking
and listening to the blood-pools talking,
bones and bonfires everywhere,
black and blue and red in the air.
Poisoned the water, bitter the rain.
Life itself is in love with pain.

Our comfort-manufactured metal hearts dissolve in rust
so that 'Old myths renew as passionate as dusk.'

...t shpirtit, n nj kend,
lindi nj shqetsim
q eli varrin tnd...

If 99% of the ever-expanding Universe is unknowable
Dark Matter (The True God)
and an infinitesimal percentage of the remaining 1% is the
living matter we are so intent on corrupting and destroying,
the whole of life is the tiniest blemish
on the otherwise marvellous Universe,
no matter how many billions of synapses are in my brain,
no matter that life itself is in love with pain.


Above us the blue.
Beneath us an old, old map.
I cannot see the borders or the armies
only rivers and forests.
The machine we are in
(eating sandwiches which taste of Treblinka and Gulag)
wipes through the mildew
wipes through the blight
of history. Those millions
of terrible events might not have happened.
But they are still happening now
out of sight, day and night.
Good news is something misreported.
Anthony Weir
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Poems By Poet Anthony Weir