Anthony Weir

Rookie (13th September 1941)

Anthony Weir Poems

41. Alone, By The River Aveyron (After Tu-Fu) 5/25/2006
42. The Shadow Of A Shadow Of A Wound 5/25/2006
43. People Called Sioux - A Holocaust Poem 5/26/2006
44. Just Another Rape 5/26/2006
45. Homo Nequam Frugi 5/27/2006
46. For Men Only? 5/27/2006
47. Tombs For The Living Are Erected By The Dead 5/28/2006
48. Time And Dog 5/28/2006
49. Ninety-Eight Percent 5/29/2006
50. Wake 5/30/2006
51. Maybe The Maggots 5/30/2006
52. Portrait Of St.Agatha With Credit-Card, Upon Which Rests One Of Her Amputated, Blue-Veined Breasts 5/12/2006
53. 8/6 5/13/2006
54. The Happy Pessimist 5/14/2006
55. War Against Circumcision 5/31/2006
56. Unrequited 6/1/2006
57. Evolutionary Thoughts 6/3/2006
58. Names & Numbers Games 6/4/2006
59. Senility 6/15/2006
60. The Diogenes Museum 6/19/2006
61. Infinite Banality 6/21/2006
62. John Stuart Mill 7/4/2006
63. Living 7/5/2006
64. Mistake 7/6/2006
65. For Sale 7/15/2006
66. Deviants 8/8/2006
67. Understanding Möbius 8/14/2006
68. To America 8/15/2006
69. Cides 8/20/2006
70. Death Is The Second Coming 5/6/2006
71. Beached 5/6/2006
72. To Amnesty International 5/6/2006
73. I Am Open 5/6/2006
74. Confession Of A Failed Abortion 5/6/2006
75. It Is Quite Difficult 5/6/2006
76. In Siena 5/6/2006
77. Ek Stasis 5/6/2006
78. Culture Is The Vulture That Rips Apart The Heart 5/6/2006
79. St Valentine's Day Poem 5/6/2006
80. Here, Now In The Junkyard Of Reality 5/6/2006

Comments about Anthony Weir

  • Auban Saint-antonin (10/1/2012 6:13:00 AM)

    Some of these poems are mind-altering - and there are over 150 you can download free from this website!

    1 person liked.
    1 person did not like.
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

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