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Why do we deny the obvious:
That happiness and property are opposites ?


Where I was born in 1941 - a wartime 'Maternity Hostel'.
I had though that its name Folly Farm
was connected with the fact that my mother, a schoolteacher,
victim of a sexual assault, had to travel from Belfast to Berkshire
in order to have her illegitimate child
(whom she adopted in 1942 and brought to her mother and sister in Belfast).
But, at the age of 73 I find out that I was wrong:
it is the original name of this handsome building.

On the barren frontier between poetry, philosophy and integrity a lone wolf prowls.


"Hermetic Situationism"

BEYOND THE PALE

The Pale was the variable extent of Engish influence in Ireland, centred in Dublin,
from the late 13th to the early 17th centuries.
My Irish home in the barony of Lecale (80 miles north of Dublin) was rarely part of it.
It ended with the 17th century 'plantations' of English and Scots in various parts of Ireland.
The phrase beyond the Pale means 'beyond civilisation, beyond respectability, uncouth, unacceptable'.
There was another English Pale - around Calais, where English jurisdiction ran until the 16th century.

I believe that there were also Pales in the North American colonies.
The word means 'stake' or 'post' - hence an area defended by a palisade.

The Pale of Settlement was along Russia's western border (including a large chunk of Poland-Lithuania),
established by Catherine the Great to 'control' the Jews in their shtetls and ghettoes.
To have been beyond that Pale would have had a contrary meaning: to be a civilised Lutheran German,
such as Immanuel Kant in Königsberg (now Kaliningrad)...


 

"We cannot live in a world that is not our own, in a world that is
interpreted for us by others. An interpreted world is not a home.
Part of the terror is to take back our own listening, to use our own
voice, to see our own light."

- Hildegard of Bingen (1098-1179)

 

 

WHEN DID POETRY IN ENGLISH DIE ?
Faber & Faber killed it, well before Famous Séamus.

 

Le Tombeau de Kurt Schwitters



The traditional publication of small-circulation, quality books of radical-philosophical (tiny minority) interest is dead a long time.

The education-system and the profit-motive killed it.

Big Business and the Nation State have silenced all versions of The Word that do not serve their corrupt, greedy, Protean cause - which is, in the end, the destruction of the planet for money, status and vainglory.

Nation-states and Turbo-capitalism have killed the awareness that awareness is suppressed.

Dissident Editions is in the vanguard of free, anti-copyright web-publishing - until the Web, too, is controlled and censored by corporate and governmental malignance.

The advantage of the Internet over print is that both text and presentation can be re-edited and improved daily, if it seems necessary.
It also allows writers and poets to be their own publishers, in control of their own material - for better or for worse - and to extend their talent or genius to web-presentation.

When the poet is also a painter and photographer, the Web is virtually the only way for him to present his vision.

The Internet allows truly democratic access to anyone with a computer and an enquiring mind. This site has received input from such varied visitors as an Albanian émigrée, a French craftsman, an English schoolboy, a Russian artist, a Dutch poet, an Iraqi Kurd, a Russian painter, and a Finnish doctor...

The Internet is now the only possible - if unlikely - medium for Oracles.


 

This website is dedicated to
the holiness of animals
and the irredeemability of Man.




Art dilutes truth,
religion glorifies untruth;
poetry must enter between the eyes.


 

BEYOND THE PALE

Beyond-the-Pale
does not do similes nor metaphors
nor family
nor birthdays, nor Christmas
nor bars, nor restaurants,
and very little sex;
does not have television
nor washing-machine;
does not do hygiene
nor publishers
and has never been employed -

he's someone the banal avoid.



I wrote the above twenty years before I was sent this splendid poem by
the Japanese resister, Kaneko Mitsuharu (1895-1975)

(my own translation)


OPPOSITION

When I was young
I resisted school,
and now
I resist employment.

What I most hate
are property and hygiene.
There's nothing so inhuman
as law-abiding cleanliness.

Naturally, I contradict The Spirit of our Nation.
Duty and Social Function make me vomit.
I'm against all governments everywhere
and wave my smelly cock
at the cosy cartels of
Accepted Writers.

When I'm asked what my Purpose In Life is,
I answer: To oppose.
When I'm Easterly
I go Westward.

I do up my coat and shoes the wrong way round.
I wear my trousers back to front,
and likewise ride a horse.

What everyone else hates I like.
My greatest hate of all is
consensus, unanimity, received opinion.

So I believe that to oppose
is the only splendid thing in life.
To oppose is REALLY to live.
To oppose is to connect deeply
with the spirit within.


In the 1970s I briefly wrote a column for a smug and stuffy Northern Irish magazine called 'Fortnight'.

I was fired immediately after writing some personal reflections on pædophilia -
before pædophiles were found under every other stone,
and before it was realised that most child-abuse occurred within families.

My undistressedly-fatherless childhood was haunted by distant, hostile males
who regarded me as a cissy bastard.

In my article, I - ever frank and open - said I would have welcomed
a bit of male attention, maybe cuddles.
A bit of mutual masturbation would have been interesting, at least:

perhaps a warning, perhaps an induction.

I was at the exploratory age of eight or nine when a schoolfriend and I
did boyishly sexual - we said 'biological' - things together
deep in the rhododendrons. We loved biology.
That fascinatingly-circumcised friend wanted to become an obstetrician -
and became one, the author of ANTAGONISM OF KETAMINE BY PHYSOSTIGMINE.

He died in 2012.

Of course, to have been fucked by a desperate teacher, or Forsythe,
the sinister school doctor, would have been abuse.
But not that much worse than having favoured bully-boys
(who went on to play rugby for Ireland) force me to drink their piss.

Many years later, Adrian Mole (aged 13¾) would write in his Secret Diary for Tuesday, September 29th :

'Bert doesn't get on with his district nurse. He says he doesn't like having his privates mauled by a woman. Personally I wouldn't mind it.'

 

What I wrote was considered quite beyond the Pale.
Now the world knows what the Catholic hierarchy did
to vulnerable boys and girls not just in Ireland - but everywhere -
with menaces.
And not just priests, and bishops, and (as we now know) cardinals -
but their rich friends, some of them in government,
some military, some of them policemen.

I still have no doubt that some fatherless boys welcomed
a male hand upon their genitals -
faute de mieux.
(I, always emotionally apart, was nearly forty before
I deliberately turned to men for 'that sort of thing'.)

I have no doubt, either, that the Catholic church
is the most evil organisation among the many that stalk the earth.



 

"For my own part, I don't lack the courage to think a thought through:
no thought has frightened me so far.
If one ever does, I hope I'll at least have the honesty to say:
This idea scares me stiff. It stirs up something in me that I don't want to confront.
"

- Søren Kierkegaard




MORE BLATHER


"
The moment I left school I decided that I would be in control of my life: I would not take orders from anyone unless I agreed with them; I would make my own mistakes. My time would belong to me, not to unknown or half-known others - and certainly not to The System..
So I made my own mistakes, in my own time, which were insignificant compared with the mistakes that others had made on my behalf.

"Time is my wealth. Money is for the poor in time and in spirit, the Faustians.
I have chosen a Diogenean autonomy.

"My only aspiration was to be wise.
My only desire was to avoid stress.
Head-banging relieved stress, even after I - alert and alone - had picked my stressless and marvellously jobless, harmless path in the invisible forest of feeling on the all-too-visible Planet of Pain.

"At the age of 21, after dreary years of brain-washing and body-despising 'education', I decided that I would no longer tolerate the oppression of contemptible hierarchies and their inbuilt competitiveness, and that employment after the confusing punishments of birth, childhood and adolescence was an indignity too far.

"I was also so acutely aware of the misery and injustice in the world that beauty made me weep. So, although I had no recognised talent, I decided to devote my life to poetry and to try, through contemplation and devotion to honesty, to make my life into a continually self-revising poem.

"Such arrogance!

"Poetry that is merely an up-market part of the Entertainment Industry is no more than up-market entertainment - whether it be by Catullus, Gthe or Seamus Heaney.

"I eventually came to believe that the only poems worth writing - and reading - are those that celebrate non-human things, integrity and humbleness;
or those that can persuade at least one person to unsubscribe from everything.
For the most beautiful music is when music stops.
"

 

[ read more ]

 


Listen here

to a 25-minute interview
on my life and thoughts
for a Dublin radio station

now posted on YouTube.

 

 

"The more that we believe that we are individuals
the more we are just products.
In societies of consumer-voyeurs who are themselves product,
life becomes the accumulation of spectacles in both senses:
both lens and entertainment. And the planet screams.

"We are as sperm in the rectum of 'reality'.

"All gain is both ephemeral and immoral -
not least the gaining of knowledge - for knowledge is yet another loss of integrity.
If knowledge brings power, and power is immoral, none in history has used it as nobly as Caligula's horse."


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TRIOLET

by Wendy Cope

I used to think all poets were Byronic -
Mad, bad and dangerous to know.
And then I met a few.
Yes it's ironic -
I used to think all poets were Byronic.
They're mostly wicked as a ginless tonic
And wild as pension plans.
Not long ago I used to think all poets were Byronic -
Mad, bad and dangerous to know.

 

Selfportrait-metamorphoto

He has a long beard & short fingers,
thin body and spathulate thumbs.
He longed to be one of the singers
and failed to be one of the dumbs.


____________________________________

 


NEGATIVE

COLLABORATION

 

 

Notes (2003) in reply to a correspondent who read the above,
and asked for some biographical details:

"My mother scrimped and saved to send me to a mildly nasty, nearby private school (Campbell College, Belfast) where I learned only that the only education is continuous self-education. I have taught myself everything worth learning except reading and counting and the basics of biology, grammar, Greek and French. In my whole private school and university career I was blessed with just four good teachers! The 15 or so others were poor to dreadful. At this school, bullying was the perquisite of the teaching staff, and there was very little by my peers - though at one stage I was victimised to the extent of having a future famous Ireland Rugby-player sit on me (with his cronies around him) while he pissed on my face. This was not so terrible, and actually I would now find it quite tender - if performed lovingly by a sweet and hairy man.

School failed miserably to expunge and extinguish my free curiosity (which is what the education system and the whole nation-state seems to be set up to do). I was physically abused at school, of course, but not sexually (if only I had, I might not have been so in-the-dark for years thereafter!)

Schools are set up to abuse and abort the brains and minds and hearts of pupils, which is much worse and more corrosive than mere sexual abuse. I would have preferred this latter to ten years of compulsory 'sport' which I loathed as I still loathe all competitiveness. I ran away from school, once and unsuccessfully.

It wasn't until the age of 25 that I realised that I would have to dismantle (or at least question) everything that had hitherto been pushed into me. And so I never was employed or married or anything mindless like that. But I did not realise that it would take all the rest of my life - at least 40 years - to do the job. It is still not finished.

After some false starts I read philosophy at University - but that was more of the same, so I spent all nine papers and 27 hours of my finals attacking the whole system of system-worshipping. This was before I heard about the Russian Nihilists.

Naturally I did not get a degree - which made me pretty well (and usefully for me) unemployable: no 'Qualification', too well-educated, and continually self-educating.

When (after leaving home in Belfast) I had nowhere to live I just went and asked rich people for a hovel, and got three different, good places. I now live in a 200 year old farmhouse with original sagging roof and some damp, for $5 a week - for life. No other house is within view, and I look out across a rookery and fields and over the Irish Sea to the Isle of Man; and to the Mountains of Mourne in another direction. I can't be put out because the landlord tried to evict me on grounds of immorality (kissing bearded men in the garden in a country where there is suspicion and dislike of anything pliant, tender, autonomous, or unconventional), and lost his case rather badly. There are no mass graves that I know of.

This was some years after the pivotal point in my life: my four-month spell in a traditional panopticon prison (with slop-buckets and defective heating) - for repeated shoplifting of kitchenware and food. Through prison I gained a self-esteem that those who rely on others being mirrors to their conformities cannot conceive of. I was terrified when I went in; I was proud when I left. And I wear with pride my crude darns and patches on the clothes my mother, at various times, knit and made for me.

I didn't realise that I was a sort of trichophilous samesexlover until I was 40 - no hairy, bearded, interested teachers at school to instruct me (in this or in much else), I guess. And even if there were, they would not have told (much less shown) me that 'sex' is at its ('Tantric') best when it is non-penetrative and non-ejaculatory - that is to say: when it is not a means of achieving some kind of orgasm, but a celebratory journey starting from deep, inexpressible connection.

I am now (2014) seventy-threeand living rather well on a small Social Security allowance in a house which I never lock, beside a rookery, with a fine shrub-garden which is especially good in winter and has plants from all over the planet: Chile, New Zealand, Mexico, China, Japan, South Africa, the Mediterranean, Morocco and Siberia.

I have lived off the warmongering and mind-crushing state all my life: I vowed never to pay tax to finance its malignance, so being on Welfare Benefit is a neat solution. I have a very good quality of life. Peace and quiet in a house full of beautiful stones and paintings, food that I prepare myself, a heartwarming collection of useful ceramics, good, inexpensive wines - and music ranging from early Jazz to Arabic and Indian Classical, from Dufay to Reich, Tavener and Schnittke, from Albanian polyphonic singing to the piano quartets of Brahms and the Trio Joubran, and from Georges Brassens to the ambient electronic compositions of Brian Eno, B.J. Cole and Klaus Schulze.

I am one of the last people in Ireland to boil water in a kettle over a fire. I do it to a lesser extent on the banks of the French river Aveyron where I can live almost entirely from local produce at any time of year, in wonderful and varied landscape.

Because I make friends easily I used to have many. But since I find people all very much the same, limited, normalised kind of dull (or paranoid), I have just a couple each of male and female friends.

Whereas Jenny Joseph in her famous poem 'Warning' described the unconventionality she would enjoy when she would become an old woman (and wear purple), I enjoyed greater freedom long before I was sixty, when, without family, TV, microwave, clean windows, employment or insurance, I stuck out my tongue at unpleasant people, and called them shit-heads to their face, and pissed in washbasins and ate good half-price food well past its sell-by date, and got caught shoplifting, and rarely took a bath and changed my clothes infrequently. Of course I smell much better than the fastidious, deodorised and over-washed who get up my nose.

Unlike Diogenes, I don't masturbate in public nor hurl dead poultry in schoolrooms - but I have kissed stray dogs in the street and would outdo Lazarus by licking their sores while the Christians drive by in their cars. I don't yet harangue people in the street like the religious maniacs who are so many.

I scramble over and under barbed wire. I shall be buried in my brambly badger-thicket where I have planted beech and oak and hazel, spindle-tree and guelder-rose, medlar and quince and bird-cherry and crab-apple, and apple-scented rose, fire-bush and partridge-berry.

I have not disturbed it further, letting the nettles and fireweed grow and chopping the brambles only so much as to stop them pulling the young trees down. The birds and the badgers will breed and the foxes move in, so that on this ravaged, ransacked, pitiable island one acre at least would remain dense, impenetrable, protected, free and unmanaged.

Often I walk over my grave - where already are buried some ashes of my aunt and some hair of my mother - who, at the age of sixty, began the twenty-year happiest, most autonomous period of her life.

But if I die in France, I will be buried in a normal-sized grave which I have attractively-planted, in a leafy corner of an unusually well-sited municipal graveyard with a fine view over the village of Saint-Antonin-Noble-Val - where I once also planted a little and varied orchard containing quince, medlar, persimmon, almond, apple, plum, cherry, amelanchier, crab-apple and pear-trees.

I have 'abnormal' tendencies - on the one hand: Aspergerish, and on the other: bi-polar.

I am a thief, but not a liar. I write corrections in library books."


[revised 2014]


breakfast photo by Artyom Kotyenko, December 2000

Anthony Weir

"My religion: non-practising Cannibal."


more biography

 

All the evidence suggests that we are in the world to do very little apart from enjoying ourselves,
and so we do everything to prevent our simple enjoyment of life.

Since I was not offered a Cup of Hemlock to drink when I had realised this, aged 25,
I became A BURDEN ON THE STATE
until such time as THEY would send me a romantic cyanide capsule.

This has still not happened.
But I am happy to be a Burden
on the terrible, world-destroying State whose hideous
military-industrial-pharmaceutical-educational complex
I loathe.


 

on YouTube


 

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"The three greatest frauds in history were Moses, Jesus and Mohamed."
- Frederick II, Holy Roman Emperor, the Stupor Mundi of the 13th century.

 

 


This website was started in 2000 - on a little, old, damaged and malfunctioning
second-hand Laptop operating on Windows 95.

This scam-certificate was sent in March 2008.


Finally, the last part of a poem which almost exactly echoes my own thoughts,
even though it is written by a 'successful', much-quoted,
media-savvy, and presumably now-very-wealthy white American breeding-woman,
who is probably not vegetarian or anti-capitalist.
Her public name is:

Oriah Mountain Dreamer


from
THE INVITATION

It doesn't interest me
to know where you live or how much money you have.
I want to know if you can get up
after the night of grief and despair
weary and bruised to the bone
and do what needs to be done
to feed the children..

It doesn't interest me who you know
or how you came to be here.
I want to know if you will stand
in the centre of the fire
with me
and not shrink back.

It doesn't interest me where or what or with whom
you have studied.
I want to know what sustains you
from the inside
when all else falls away.

I want to know if you can be alone
with yourself
and if you truly like the company you keep
in the empty moments.


photo by Anthony Weir


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Google
the web beyond-the-pale.uk/

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Landscape near Loughkeelan, by Anthony Weir

more paintings by Anthony Weir

 

 


"We must do away with the absolutely specious notion that everybody has to earn a living. It is a fact today that one in ten thousand of us can make a technological breakthrough capable of supporting all the rest.

The youth of today are absolutely right in recognizing this nonsense of earning a living. We keep inventing jobs because of this false idea that everybody has to be employed at some kind of drudgery because, according to Malthusian-Darwinian theory, he must justify his right to exist.

So we have inspectors of inspectors and people making instruments for inspectors to inspect inspectors. The true business of people should be to go back to school and think about whatever it was they were thinking about before somebody came along and told them they had to earn a living."

Richard Buckminster Fuller

 


"The youth of today" he was writing about was my generation.
The youth of the twenty-first century, alas, have been successfully brainwashed
- world-wide -
by the universal "education" system into believing the rubbish
injected into their poor, over-excited and under-stimulated brains.

 

 

TRY A PAGE AT RANDOM

 



to download a copy of an illustrated
zipped E-book of Selected Poems
from this website, entitled

Practising Howling

CLICK HERE

 

THE FONTS USED ON THIS WEBSITE ARE CRUCIAL TO ITS APPEARANCE.

The principal one is the most-readable of all, BOOKMAN OLD STYLE.
Also used are VERDANA, PAPYRUS and COMIC SANS,
as well as the default font on your browser, which is usually the hard-to-read typeface
Times New Roman.

If you would like to instal these fonts on your computer, click
HERE,

download, unzip, and drop into the FONTS folder which is located inside your WINDOWS folder,
easily accessible from 'MY COMPUTER'.




casting
PIGLETS
before
ROBOTS

Hermetic Situationism

 

 

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MEDIEVAL EXHIBITIONIST CARVINGSto be human is the greatest handicap IRISH MEGALITHS
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