Biography of Anthony Weir
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
The most common comment about my poems on PoemHunter is 'PROVOCATIVE' - which in Literary New-speak means 'shocking' or 'outrageous'. This is very satisfying.
Anthony Weir's Works:
Tide and Undertow, Blackstaff Press, Belfast 1976
Cinema of the Blind, Blackstaff Press, Belfast 1980
Early Ireland, a Field Guide, Blackstaff Press, Belfast 1981
Images of Lust, Batsford Books, London 1986
Dispatches from the War against the World, Dissident Editions, Downpatrick, l994
The Transcendental Hotel, Dissident Editions, Downpatrick,1996
Womb of Half-fogged Mirrors, Dissident Editions, Downpatrick,1998
plus various other books (by Dissident Editions) since 2000.
Anthony Weir Poems
'The Scent Of These Armpits Is An Aroma ...
I dreamed. I woke in tenderness. I dreamed of tenderness as a ripe plum squirting
In the Beginning God burst like a Balloon Showering the World With dirty shreds
A Dublin Poem
At the Conference of Poetry Police An observer who claimed That a tree was worth
The Motto Of Capitalism: Enough Is Not E...
The animal garden Is now a murder-hole. Language was always the Labyrinth. Civilisation is striving, spurning
Two Very Short Poems
December snow falling tells me to stop thinking.
Gloss On The Ninth Elegy Of Rainer-Maria...
My invisible, other true friend, Brother Zoti Lamort, unknowable, ever-present, everywhere like a vast four-dimensional carpet, asks me silently why I have to be human,
A Voice From The Mirror
The greatest achievement is to become unmentionable to the unspeakable. 'Now' is glimpses of the always framed by never.
A La Recherche De Paul Verlaine
Miserable wars if love is not the reason Miserable wars
Erech/Uruk - Iraq
We're told that writing was invented here: lists of weapons, foodstuffs, kings, kinsmen, laws and penalties. Here lived the first Man-God, Gilgamesh.
Obviously, song came before speech and moans came before song. Whales sing refrains and antiphons, compose sonatas.
Urinals are strange places where men stand like itinerant sweet-peas against temporary trellises
'Blood Is The Belly Of Logic' - In Memor...
Farming is more swords than earth-savaging, earth-exhausting ploughshares: exile from Eden, starvation and infection,
Just Another Rape
I am nobody. As the lightning flashed the city showed itself as greasy ruins, and lush landscape was revealed
In just one respect they tend to deviate. In other ways they earnestly collaborate, conform depressingly. The same is true of dissidents and poets.
Irish fields are bleak
even in summer when the grass is high for silage.
They are prisoners,
beaten up, interned behind barbed wire,
inside us, our fenced land, our property
- and we cannot shut it out.
Nor brick nor stone nor wool nor wine
nor fire nor electricity can keep it out
of the trampled, overcropped, exhausted