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Poems By Poet Anthony Weir  12/20/2014 7:50:40 PM
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  ANTHONY WEIR (13th September 1941)
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All Souls Day, Saint-Antonin-Noble-Val

Here in the graveyard
the rotting corpses lie.
Children depress me.
But it cheers me up to know
that I and they will die.
Anthony Weir



Alone, by the river Aveyron (after Tu-Fu)

The pain that beauty brings to me might seem to you ridiculous, but I'm not half-crazed - not
with alcohol or cannabis, and not by madness
or by love. Springtime is frightening
as the biosphere ploughs on so pluckily to its doom.
I am lucky, I will die soon - none too soon -
but this gorgeous river and its bird-filled banks
will die slowly, become an ooze,
a miasma in its gorge.
Little buds, open carefully. The whole planet
is a grave already and will become another grave.
Stratum on stratum, grave upon grave the earth;

and we in our vainglory think our species is significant - because we have dreamed up significance and worth.
Anthony Weir




A is for atom, which has many parts.
B is for bomb, so dear to men's hearts.
C is for cock, what you do to a rifle.
D is for doom, which is only a trifle.
E is for end which we're all of us living.
F is for future - it's quite unforgiving.
G is for Google, search-engine of choice.
H is for hoodlums, who once were sweet boys.
I is for me who should not be here
J is for Jihad against all things queer.
K is for Kali in Heaven Above.
L is for Limbo the circle of love.
M is for monster - what Man has become.
N is for nation and nasty and numb.
O is for ogle - what I do to dogs.
P is for progress that's lost in the cogs.
Q is for quiet: the peace of the dead.
R is for raucous: the thoughts in my head.
S is for steel destroying the world.
T is for triumph with banners unfurled.
U is for umbrage, so easily taken.
V is for virtue by value forsaken.
W doesn't scan - I'll leave it out.
X is for xenophobe: a mere lout.
Y is for yours, from terrible mines.
Z is for zillion - far less than Man's crimes...
Anthony Weir



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