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
Two Very Short Poems
December snow falling tells me to stop thinking.
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
'When You Are Very Old...'
translation of a famous sonnet by Pierre de Ronsard (1524-1585) from Sonnets for Hélène When you are very old, at evening, by the fire,
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
In The Dead Zone
On warm, still nights I hear rocks groan in their sleep. I am mumbling sadness unable to love or to weep,
'Seul Le Silence Est Grand: Tout Le Rest...
Poem Dedicated To The Vast Transnational...
Through language we lose our innocence, our animal integrity. Through knowledge
I went out to buy contentment and came home with bulls' testicles. I went out to buy transcendence and came back with a mobile phone.
Shade More Than Man
My bones were formed by sorrow as shrines are built by doubt Sorrow of being Doubt of becoming
It Is Very Difficult To Find The Real Th...
I had a friend who had a friend who had a stone for a friend,
Six Very Short Poems
Man in a shower. His only reality the removal of reality.
Sonnet Inspired By The Last Words Of Ril...
Seeming to live and always taking leave and re-attaching, re-inventing love and hate and obligation we are shadow-beings, abusing reason,
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