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Poems By Poet Anthony Weir  8/1/2014 7:22:18 PM
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  Best Poems From
  ANTHONY WEIR (13th September 1941)
 
 
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  25.     

Gertrude Stein

Gertrude Stein wrote mantras
delicately. Rude mantras wrote
refined Gert Stein.
Miss Mantras was the thing itself,
the liberty of thing
ringing in oblique observation
like mad. Mansanity
of selfaplomb and whimassured
and dedication to the liverty of word
released from mantrashliterality of consonants and vowels:
speech is cruelty to wise silenciousness.

Splendid right unto her bowels
divinely mooing sticky tantras
Gertrude Stein wrote spunky mantras
quite a lot -
as I cannot.
 
Anthony Weir
   
 

   
   
 

  26.     

Happiness is Despair having a Good Time

It is as true as rain
and wind
that mind
is pain
And knowledge
differentiated pain
And wisdom the sad gladness
of the immense
realisation
that it is insane
to look for sense
inside the brain
or outside sensation.
 
Anthony Weir
   
 

   
   
 

  27.     

Illusions in Three Parts (Haiku Sequence) II

The moon in a veil
as if it had coldly evolved an ego.

Frost Kings were crowned
again last night: my garden
is bedecked with lace.

Digging: a fine red worm.
Wisdom: to see everything
as from the grave.

Thinking about my death
I enthusiastically clean out
the septic tank.

Dogshit on pavements:
the unconscious calligraphy
of prisoners.

Rotting leaves
lie on each other lovingly
in hecatombs.

Morning. My erection
does not belie regret
at my father’s.

The day in silence.
At night the telephone rings.
It’s a wrong number.

Winter solitude: gorse-bush
flowering in a muddy field.

Red sky at morning:
the blood of global greed
has reached the very clouds.

Between life and death
I am always hoping to climb
Out of myself.

Winter sunlight:
trying to pull my shadow
out of the shade...

Water on the knee…
Water on the brain…and now
Water on the moon!

With my dog: a cold wet day
is an oceanic experience.

Our lives intertwined,
Oscar and I check up on
each other’s fζces.

Community of luxury:
I drink the wine
while Oscar chews the cork.

Quiet rain. My dog expresses
so much silently – why must we
make so much noise?

Every night, before
we go to bed – a brief
strip-show for my dog.

Ice on a puddle:
the brittle transience of wisdom.
 
Anthony Weir
   
 

   
   
 

  28.     

Morceau de Napolιon ('Who dares to speak of '98? '

Napoleon had very tiny private
parts, hacked off, apparently, post mortem,
sold to a Canadian for £18,000
a little while ago.
His mistresses were just for show.

Had the Irish
(whom he failed to liberate)
known this, they might
have placed their trust in -
pointed in dance
around -
their 1800 phallic stones
and not upon the impotent and upstart
Emperor of France.
 
Anthony Weir
   
 
 
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Poems By Poet Anthony Weir