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POETRY
poems
of the month
archive
the
diogenes sequence
i
am and am not: 
fragments of rumi
already
backwards
destiny
and destination
the
zen of no-enlightenment
a
light in ruins
iraqi
monologues
awaiting
the barbarians
the
smell of possibilities
the
sexy jihad
ultimate
leaves
rejoice
in the dog
post-millennium
maggot
the
book of nothing
dispatches
from the war against the world
albanian
poems
french
poems in honour of jean genet
the hells
going on
suicide
for
non-beginners
fearful
symmetry
book
disease
foreground
trouble
the
transcendental hotel
cinema
of the blind
lament
of the earth mother
uranian
poems
haikai
by okami
haikai
on the edge
black
hole of your heart
jung's
motel
leda
and the swan
confession
from belgrade
gloss
on rilke's ninth duino elegy
jewels
and shit: poems by rimbaud
villon's
dialogue with his heart
vasko
popa:
a shepherd of wolves ?
the
rubaiyát of omar khayyám
genrikh
sapgir:
an ironic mystic
the
love of pierre de ronsard
imagepoem
TRANSLATIONS
BETWEEN POETRY AND PROSE
good
riddance to mankind
400
revolutionary maxims
nice
men and
suicide of an alien
vacuum
of desire:
a 'gay' correspondence
anti-fairy
tales
the
most terrible event in history
the
rich man and the leper
TRANSLATIONS
SHORT STORIES
godpieces
ESSAYS
running on emptiness
a holocaust near
you
a
note on the cathars happiness
londons
of the mind
& dealing death to the caspian
genocide
a
muezzin from the tower of darkness
being
or television
satan
in the groin
womb of half-fogged mirrors
tourism
and terrorism
diogenes:
the dog of sinope
shoplifting
in britain & america
this
sorry scheme of things
a
holy dog and a dog-headed saint
fools
for nothingness
death
of a bestseller
towards
the zen of sex
field
guide to megalithic ireland
houses
for the dead
french
megaliths
a
small town in france
western
values
the
church of lazarus and the dogs
hell
THEMEATRIX
Doctors
kill more people than 'terrorists' do.
So what's the problem
with 'terrorism' ?
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PAGE
F
THE MONTH
July
2008
The terror of error
The error of terror
The terror of seeing
The error of being
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POEM
TO MY SOUL
a sonnet by
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Amelette
Ronsardelette
Mignonnelette doucelette
Treschere hostesse de mon corps,
Tu descends là bas foiblelette,
Pasle, maigrelette, seulette,
Dans le froid Royaume des mors :
Toutesfois simple, sans remors
De meurtre, poison, ou rancun,
Méprisant faveurs et tresors
Tant enviez par la commune.
Passant, j'ai dit, suy ta fortune
Ne trouble mon repos, je dors.
translated by Anthony Weir
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Poor dear
wee soul, sweet
sleekit soul of poor wee Pierre,
sweetest inhabitant of my wee heap
of flesh and bone,
already you've begun to creep,
all frail and pale and wull from out my bed
down to the cold Kingdom of the Dead.
You are
guileless, guiltless, rancourless,
distrusting favour and reward
thus envied by your petty peers.
I feel
you seep
away from me, your carnal nest.
Goodbye, wee love, just keep
right on and don't disturb my rest.
I've gone to Sleep.
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_________________________
Note:
if anyone 'out there' speaks Ulster/Scots/Lallans
can he or she please SEND
me synonyms for 'wee sleekit',
implying vulnerable, precious, defenceless etc.,
to correspond with the humorous/ironic -ette endings of Ronsard.
Scots has both prefixes and suffixes of this type.
Boring old English has no such adaptability,
and I can get no online help
from the thraun and dreich people who have taken over Ulster/Scots
as the pseudo-Republican Catholics took over Irish as fodder
for
their petty puritanism.
(Talking of which, Néo-Pétainisme stalks the
Fair Land of France...even in ever-Résistant Rouergue...)

AS
I GET OLDER
regrets appear
like
woodworm or incontinence -
regrets that I
was callow
for so long, and so ignorant
of my mother's close regrets,
her brave disconsolation.
Maturity may be
no more than vain regret
that I am incorrigibly shallow
and that I trampled on
the heartache of the
previous generation.
A
MONK'S YEAR
re-translated
by Anthony Weir from the Old Irish
SPRING
By Belfast Lough
a bright-billed
blackbird trilled
from coruscating gorse.

SUMMER
He is my joy
my sweet nut-grove.
He is my boy
and this
a kiss
for my love.

AUTUMN
The winds are
wild tonight. They tear
and toss the sea's white hair.
And yet they bring my mind much ease
for Vikings sail on calmer seas.

WINTER
The wind is
icy
the sun blear.
The bent tree's shelter
on the bleak moor.
The bracken's
brown.
Barnacle-geese
flying at dawn
cry to the ice.
Cold has caught
the wings of birds.
Frost has brought
my winter words.

MAXIM
OF THE MONTH:
Humility
is not obedience -
nor is obedience humility.
JUNE'S
MAXIM
The
first step to Heaven
is to cut off your feet.
(after
Rumi)
MAY'S
MAXIM
Even
the poor have more money than sense.
APRIL'S
MAXIM
Love
is
estrangement's
distorting mirror.
MARCH'S
MAXIM
It's
not what's going on that matters
but what's going off.
FEBRUARY'S
MAXIM
Nothing
that is guarded is worth having.
JANUARY'S
MAXIMS
'Silence
is always accurate.'
- Mark Rothko
'C'est
en nous qu'il nous faut nous taire'.
- Louis Aragon.

more recent Maxims can be read on the
welog


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To be human is to imagine - then create - problems.
the
book of nothing 
A
poem runs a course of unseen obstacles and comes to some sort
of end with a small insight - not necessarily a great , bogus
clarification, such as religions are founded on - but in a momentary
glimpse of something which seems to be a kind of understanding.


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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.
William Blake
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
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a free e-Book of 198 of Anthony
Weir's poems
(indexed) can be downloaded from PoemHunter
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CREDO
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.
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