Anthony Weir Poems
- 'The Scent Of These Armpits Is...
- Big Bang In the Beginning God burst like a ...
- A Dublin Poem At the Conference of Poetry Police An ...
- Two Very Short Poems December snow falling tells me to stop ...
- The Motto Of Capitalism: Enoug...
- A Voice From The Mirror The greatest achievement is to ...
- Gloss On The Ninth Elegy Of Ra...
Now 65, having lived my life entirely dissident, vasectomised, refusing to be employed, married, and to have anything to do with 'normality', I divide my State-Pensioned time between beautiful, remote, rural Northern Ireland and a beautiful mediæval village in the Aveyron Gorges of south-west France. I also write poems in French: http: //www.beyond-the-pale.co.uk/french.htm
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'The Scent Of These Armpits Is An Aroma Finer Than Prayer' (Walt Whitman)
I woke in tenderness.
I dreamed of tenderness
as a ripe plum squirting
down my beard – tenderness
that turned to tide
which flowed through both of us
and in which we floated
through our cuddle-space
wherein our snug adhesion
the unseen ballet of our tongues
the breath shared by each other's lungs
were part of an epiphanic lace
of delicate and gorgeous things
that we in sacred, shared
humility presented to each other
as sweet kings –
and the smiling