a hundred times
more people than
So what's the problem
with 'terrorism' ?
are those who ask you
how you are
only when they really
want to know.
The terror of error
The error of terror
The terror of seeing
The error of being
days I used to write at least one poem or idea:
a complaint somewhere between a runny nose and diarrha.
AFTER A POEM BY YOSIP MANDELSTAM
"And I was
alive" below the blizzard
of the blossoming pear,
I sheltered from
storm of the cherry tree beneath the cherry tree's
leaf-life and star-shower,
its sap-strength, its primal, invisible
which had nothing to do with
what I had been told was me.
What and where
is the joy, the delight
that always takes flight from us
and even our shadows ?
What is being? What is reality? What is right ?
and rapture the air,
flurry and float, and I am in
time shrunk to a kernel,
time stretched to the
impossibly, unbearably eternal -
brief sweetness transubstantiating into the glory
of all-encompassing rot.
All is now. All
was. All will be and is not.
Weir 30 vi 2019
WE ARE METHOD
Your toe is a
It traces the hollow of reason.
Layers and layers
of heartbeat and reason.
These are shadows.
Shadows are not
and we are not echoes.
We lean toward the sun.
They ask us to
is even better than mindfulness.
Both together are rarer than worms' eyes.
The life dutiful, the life romantic,
the life beautiful or pedantic,
a waste of time, of egg, of sperm, of lies,
of lust, of hate, desire, paralysis and dance -
a good death, a lovely corpse
there is Jesus Holy-spook
a money-spinning mannequin
in the schizoid monoworld
of money-laundered human rights
and human progress - human fights
the centre, the circumference
the be-all, withal, end-all
I am not Sweeney.
Hear my utterance.
Herewith my inheritance.
to Kostas Karyotakis
"Helen S. Lamari
Poet and Musician
Died in great pain
Death is a baby
Death is the dawning of the sun
and rising of the earthly powers.
Death is the threshing of the corn.
Death is an opera-overture,
the purple lips of heady flowers,
the washing of your too-clean feet,
an acorn which will grow to be a tree
from which to make a bier, a flight of stairs,
a roof-beam and the receipt
upon the back of which
is scrawled a petty poem for a jubilee.
Love is less the
lion's tooth* -
more a stain of piss
upon a sheet
- that spreads - like sappy, spotty youth -
and soon or later
fades in the prick's
wrote Yeats -
and the worst, not merely "full
of passionate intensity", are often
The future is
the past a costume-drama
and the present is the numbing
low-level pain of descriptive consciousness.
Time and consciousness
have only the most accidental
of connections. Time is an eternal
abstract stretch, while consciousness
is the awareness, unawareness,
or murderous refutation of futility.
Knowledge is mere imagination,
childish, self-aggrandising, deceiving
and self-deceiving. There will be a time
when there is no time for generation.
Whenever anyone mentions Alexandria,
I see a house and its white walls,
a little row of night-scented stock,
an autumn evening's pale sunlight
and I hear far music of Oriental flutes.
When someone mentions
I see night-glow over a quiet city,
drunken sailors in unlit alleyways,
a lovely girl's erotic
and I hear timbrels, drunken brawls.
When anyone mentions
I see mauve sunset above green sea,
the flickering of fuzzy stars
and the pale grey eyes beneath thick brows
that I see even when
no-one mentions Alexandria.
MORE COMPARATIVELY-RECENT POEMS BY ANTHONY WEIR
are those who ask you
how you are
only when they really
want to know.
On the seventieth
of my untimely birth I reflect on
those poor "White Trash",
ghetto "Negroes", homeless Hispanics,
Filipina slaves, and others of the
who died in squalor, pain and misery
on the eleventh of September
in the two thousand and first year
of the "Christian Era" (or Papal Caliphate)
- and whose deaths were hardly noticed by
a heartless, mechanistic nation-state.
If you really
want to 'grow in spirit'
you will have to go beyond
obedience and deference.
Your strong moral structure, transcending
mere normality, will transgress
both law and custom.
Sensuality can be more teacher
You may need sometimes to be destructive -
for half the ancient edifice will have to be pulled down.
Thus you will attain a measure of integrity.
I talk, forgetting
that I am conversing with the dead.
Their words form their faces,
make my blood curdle,
and they all talk to me
somewhere beyond my head
thinking about poetry.
I am in a milky space
between the dead and myself
and my ideas, words, impressions.
Poetry is like
mist appearing, disappearing
and no more, no less meaningful
in its vaporous processions.
animal lacks beauty of mind.
and even punished. The most
destructive are the most admired,
and so we won't permit
an end to misery. Because of us,
life itself is getting tired
and short of breath.
So the last thing
to be frightened of
SOLUM QUAM CUM SOLUS*
trees, if they grow at all, grow strong."
George Gordon Noël, Lord Byron Childe Harold (canto IV, st. 33)
Since I prefer
to mediocre, syllabus-poetry
I read Philip Kerr,
not Séamus Heaney.
This puts me in
Outer Ring of Outcasts:
those who despise
celebrity, its pawns,
And, being an
solitary, preferring dogs,
I know no literati,
no literary agent, no queens or cogs
of the little cocktail-and-performance
poetry- and literary-
don't go out for evenings,
attend no awful readings
consisting mainly of mutterings
and embarrassed pauses
but compose compulsively
a bold and bald variety of poetry
unacceptable to the
anecdotalists who rule
with its ever-present participles
and detailed, dependent clauses.
So I'll get
no ingratiating letter
from Austin, Texas - nor even
from the University of Disheartening
Ulster; so I won't
be tempted to venality,
but continue to shoplift food
(and get caught),
living frugally (washing little,
boiling water in a kettle
on the fire)
on militarist-state welfare handouts
as I've done since I was 24.
* Never less lonely than when alone -
a much-quoted phrase from Cicero.
that doctors and other
fools might call depression,
but is really the ineluctable
sense of oppression
that comes with
And so there is
as good as no education.
on a poem by Guillaume Apollinaire
this bridge here runs the river Seine
and our love with it. I should remember
that pleasure sometimes follows pain...
Night falls, clocks chime, days pass -
and I am still. Hand in hand and face to face
we stood while under the arch our arms made
flowed the faërie ooze of everlastingness.
that is) drifts away
like oil on water.
Through drag of life and lunar
pull of hope, days ebb into weeks,
and neither moments
nor loves past ever can return.
Clocks chime and nights decay.
to read the original poem and a translation]
In the famous
poem about a quiet railway-stop
there is one word which jars: 'unwontedly' -
unwontedly an awkward word. Scheduled
could not have been called up
If it had existed then.
how perfect would have been the poem ADLESTROP.
LOS CUATRO DE LA TARDE
o'clock in the afternoon
on the 27th of May, 1992,
a couple of months into the
four-year-long Siege of Sarajevo,
Bosnian Serbs fired mortar-shells
into a bread-queue.
Twenty-two people were killed
and over seventy were maimed.
For the next twenty-two
at four o'clock in the afternoon,
Vedran Smailović, a gifted
local cellist, went to the scene of the 'incident'
and played Albinoni's Adagio in G minor
(which was reconstructed from
a burnt fragment found in the ruins
of the Dresden Music Library
in 1945) as a salute to the dead.
derives ultimately from Yishma'el )
was able to leave Sarajevo in 1993,
and now lives in Northern Ireland,
surely that sub-state's bravest
and most poetic inhabitant.
Am I slightly
above the dead
here where words are as important
and as overproduced as bread ?
Among all the
places wrongly placed -
Hovering stones -
We are stained
high-rises of consciousness
Our neighbours' murderers
Trapped in time-zones
We are eventual
armies of deserters.
but scarcely communicable -
which is why we hear so little about
digging up corpses.
My corpses lie heavy, won't start to rot
until I become corpse through the magic of Death.
So I have to dig into them, through them,
deeper and deeper, scanning their faint
but plausible faces, as I shovel and shove them aside
to reach the rock underneath
where there is nothing to hide.
birth by misadventure
the primly rosy path of progress
to magisterial, unimaginable entropy.
our toe-nails grow,
the Atlantic Ocean slowly widens.
Clothed, we are
'Life is a
like an exploding parcel.
The problem is
how to defuse it.
- was it when
Adam and Eve
and gave God the first
of many horrible frights
and he had to tell them to leave ?
Metal in mists
of blood mankind
tree-stumps and stubble burnt
time maggoty out of mind
attrition without shame
beyond beneath the seas
even the ice is poisoned
and aliens or pornography
or history are to blame
How futile are
THE GOLDEN HORN
I have been born
and borne too many times already.
I would like to think
last mother also felt this
when she tried to rid her womb of me, but only thrice...
Alas for her -
she could not rid me from her heart!
I don't 'believe
or in anything - because I have lived too many
tiring lives, and not sufficiently apart,
known far too poorly
too many people, and too little (and too much),
and felt too much, too long,
died too often and impermanently -
for eternity's an idiot artifice.
'A toad can
die of light!' Perhaps
my little coming death will be the last.
In the essence
and the end, Dharma is no more than function in trite
institutions of corruption,
and Yog is just the yoke of everyone's involvement
in horrors yet
to come, and passing, and long past.
this poem is a homage to William Butler
Yeats, specifically, SAILING TO BYZANTIUM.
THROUGH E.M. CIORAN'S SHORT HISTORY OF DECAY
Art seems incapable
of doubt - thus worthless.
Decay is the fulness.
So grief is replaced
by idea, by word,
by insipid obsessions like function
and progress, rebirth,
directing our void over Earth.
wearing gold braid
stride on in parade to the graveyard
of slick definitions and concepts: 'O Rose, thou art sick!'
Dust to dust,
we lie, we sneer, we cajole,
we topple like towers into prayer,
rise up, immure ourselves in castles of disgust.
Answers are so
often questions inverted
(and so much is interchangeable:
evil and goodness, theft and property,
water and rust, purity and bile)
but questions delay the decay for a while.
Behold! twin sisters
of Jesus, of Buddha;
miasma of failure.
The sick rose feeds the worm,
and its golden seeds encased in avian shit
sprout from the aggressive
heart-stopping untruth of wealth.
Love is the worship
of the street;
honesty is half-regained by stealth.
We are long since obsolete.
After you have
burned down the ugly,
arrogant hospitals for their disgraceful
defiance of fate, go burn down vainglorious
museums and pompous art-galleries
for their glorification of goods -
and burn down the schools who feed museums
and hospitals and smug universities
- all of the self- and co-serving structures. Destroy
everything that Man (but mostly man-slaves)
erected, for the best of Man is his ruins.
O that we had built nothing, and that
nothing survived but what
we did not make: our caves!
TENHO IDEIAS FELIZES
Wer, wenn ich
schriee, hörte mich denn aus der Engel
Ordnungen ? presagio desatándose
en lenta destrucción de ángeles -
Engel nicht, Menschen nicht, Ordnungen nicht
(louco, sim louco porque
die findigen Tiere merken es schon
daß wir nicht sehr verlässlich zu Haus sind
in der gedeuteten Welt)
lo sentimos hermoso
la noche sucia, la señal como saludo -
la cópula cayéndose a pedazos
den wir, wo wir
(with acknowledgement to Fernando Pessoa,
Rainer Maria Rilke & Homero Aridjis)
Religion is the recruitment
of the wilfully superstitious.
forfeit three-quarters of ourselves
in order to be like everyone else. - Arthur Schopenhauer
are our link to paradise. They don't know evil or jealousy
To sit with a dog on a hillside on a glorious afternoon is
to be back in Eden,
where doing nothing was not boring - it was peace. - Milan Kundera
does not need to be won - it needs only not to be lost.
is an unpleasant business
which I have resolved to spend in reflection upon it.
man can do what he wants, but not want what he wants.
- Arthur Schopenhauer
enclosed by language is in prison. - Simone Weil
is the curse of understanding.
which some men cannot abide because it reveals
their inward poverty, is as a palace of cedar to the wise. - Charles H. Spurgeon (English Christian preacher,
seems to me that nearly 99% of poetry is false.
But maybe high-falutin falsehood is the point of poetry ?
want friendship is a great fault.
Friendship ought to be a gratuitous joy,
like the joys afforded by art or life. - Simone Weil
rather be Ireland's unknown McGonagall
than that island's latest Nobel laureate.
world is getting to be such a dangerous place,
a man is lucky to get out of it alive. - W.C. Fields
is more trustworthy than praise.
get power over a living creature is to defile.
To possess is to defile. - Simone Weil
very idea of 'happiness' adds to the world's misery.
quickest of us walk about
with well-wadded stupidity. - George Eliot
more recent Maxims and Aphorisms can be read on the welog
poem runs a course of unseen obstacles
and comes to some sort of end with a small insight -
not a great, bogus-clarification,
such as religions are founded on,
but a momentary glimpse of something far away
which seems to be a kind of understanding.
A DIVINE IMAGE
Cruelty has a human heart,
And Jealousy a human face;
Terror the human form divine,
And Secresy the human dress.
The human dress is forged iron,
The human form a fiery forge,
The human face a furnace sealed,
The human heart its hungry gorge.
we are all recyclable
The voyage of discovery
is not in finding new landscapes - but in getting new eyes. - Marcel Proust
La terre est couverte de gens qui ne méritent pas qu'on leur
parle. - Voltaire
a free e-Book of 198 of Anthony
Weir's poems (indexed) can be downloaded fromPoemHunter
yet another reworking of a third-century-BC poem
by Callimachus of Cyrene
Old points of view
expressed anew are crap.
Old sentiments recycled yet again,
banalities of love exposed like wounds in films,
are so much pap.
My writing's much too dissident to win a prize,
my thoughts don't come processed-flaccid from the system.
What majorities desire I just despise.