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Casting a cold eye on life, on death -
The horseless man.

POETRY

poems of the month
archive

the diogenes sequence

where to store furs

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

 

SHORT STORIES

godpieces

with mrs.dalloway in ukraine

 

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



Nuadú, God of War

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' ?

 

PAGE F THE MONTH

October 2008


The terror of error
The error of terror
The terror of seeing
The error of being


 

APOSTROPHE TO MAN

On reflecting that the world
is ready to go to war again...

by

Edna St Vincent Millay (1892-1950)


Detestable race, continue to expunge yourself, die out.
Breed faster, crowd, encroach, sing hymns, build
bombing airplanes;
Make speeches, unveil statues, issue bonds, parade;
Convert again into explosives the bewildered ammonia
and the distracted cellulose;
Convert again into putrescent matter drawing flies
The hopeful bodies of the young; exhort,
Pray, pull long faces, be earnest,
be all but overcome, be photographed;
Confer, perfect your formulæ, commercialize
Bacteria harmful to human tissue,
Put death on the market;
Breed, crowd, encroach,
expand, expunge yourself, die out,
Homo called sapiens.

 

If all mankind were to disappear, the world would regenerate back to the rich state of equilibrium that existed ten thousand years ago.
If insects were to vanish, the environment would collapse into chaos.
                              E. O. Wilson

 

more poems by Edna St Vincent Millay

 

 

TWO POEMS

by

Anthony Weir


1. DAYS

My correspondent wrote:
"I hope your day is being good to you."

He is American, of course.

Days are often good to me.

But am I good to days ?
Check out the Day-Abuse Website
to read about how horrible people can also be
to nice, harmless, passing days
which just want to go by quietly
without too much noise, except
(what can they expect ?) around volcanoes
which they learned about at Day School
from the Ancient of Days
who had a Santa beard, and was an uncircumcised
collector of foreskins,
and lived on top of cloudy pillars.

He's dead now,
killed by Christians,
whom Jews might be justified in calling God-killers.

 

 

2. A CURIOUS THING

Men's armpits in their natural state
have a range of smells
- fennel, ginger,
leather, horse, ripe date,
pipe-tobacco, damp logs -
but their balls
all smell the same

though maybe not to dogs.

 


MAXIM OF THE MONTH:

The quickest of us walk about
with well-wadded stupidity.
- George Eliot

 

SEPTEMBER'S MAXIM

Sensible people are few and far between,
apart from those who share our opinions.
- La Rochefoucauld

 

AUGUST'S MAXIM

We try to make virtues out of the faults we don't want to correct.
- La Rochefoucauld

 

JULY'S MAXIM

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 and Aphorisms can be read on the
weBlog

 



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To be human is to imagine - then create - problems.

 

the book of nothing
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.

 

 


archive of poems of the month


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

 


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

 

 


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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