Anthony Weir

Rookie (13th September 1941)

Anthony Weir Poems

1. The Futility Of Trying To Communicate The Futility Of Communication 4/5/2006
2. Every Moment Is A Moment Of Instruction 4/5/2006
3. Lies Are The Most Acceptable Drug On Earth 5/7/2006
4. A Cold Eye 5/7/2006
5. Lycandrophily 5/7/2006
6. Flames Upon The Night 5/7/2006
7. To The Ghost Of Willie Yeats 5/7/2006
8. Normality's Unknown 5/7/2006
9. Eight Shorts 5/7/2006
10. Rue Saint-Denis 5/7/2006
11. The Earth-Mother's Lamentation (Newly Translated From The Old Irish) 5/8/2006
12. Ever, Ever More Victims 5/9/2006
13. Bone To Bone (Homage To Vasko Popa) 5/10/2006
14. Daily Suicide (After The Albanian Of Bardhyl Londo) 4/7/2006
15. Megalith (Homage To The Macedonian Poet Mateja Matevski) 4/8/2006
16. Self-Portrait 5/9/2006
17. Alphabetical 4/11/2006
18. Beauty And Despair 4/20/2006
19. April 2006 (In Memoriam Sarah Teasdale) 4/20/2006
20. Compassion 4/21/2006
21. Coda (For Suchoon Mo) 4/24/2006
22. Armageddon, After All, Is A Fairly Small Hill 4/29/2006
23. Catastrophe 5/1/2006
24. Sirius 5/2/2006
25. Saturn Reflects 5/2/2006
26. Epiphany: Eochu, Lord Of The Underworld 5/4/2006
27. Paid 5/5/2006
28. Glosses On Two Poems By The Albanian Poet Petro Marko (1913-91) 5/18/2006
29. For They Are... 5/19/2006
30. Daisies On The Grass 5/20/2006
31. Suicide For Non-Beginners 5/20/2006
32. Stale Grandeur Of Annihilation 5/20/2006
33. Memorial Hymn To Diogenes Of Sinope 5/21/2006
34. Great Technology - Pity About The People Who Use It 5/22/2006
35. The Nearest To Joy 5/24/2006
36. Portrait Of St.Agatha With Credit-Card, Upon Which Rests One Of Her Amputated, Blue-Veined Breasts 5/12/2006
37. 8/6 5/13/2006
38. The Happy Pessimist 5/14/2006
39. Alone, By The River Aveyron (After Tu-Fu) 5/25/2006
40. The Shadow Of A Shadow Of A Wound 5/25/2006
Best Poem of Anthony Weir

'The Scent Of These Armpits Is An Aroma Finer Than Prayer' (Walt Whitman)

I dreamed.
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
exuberantly-bearded sun
was his
life-giving face.

Read the full of 'The Scent Of These Armpits Is An Aroma Finer Than Prayer' (Walt Whitman)

Hortus Maleficiarum

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

[Hata Bildir]