Poetry Blog by Peter Asher

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tony sheridan on Poem for childern (Mon, 12 Nov 2012 10:34 am)

tony sheridan on A short poem for a girl who lived for only 50 minutes (Mon, 12 Nov 2012 10:29 am)

Peter Asher on A short poem for a girl who lived for only 50 minutes (Tue, 8 May 2012 08:11 pm)

Lynn Dye on A short poem for a girl who lived for only 50 minutes (Tue, 8 May 2012 03:48 pm)

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Yvonne Brunton on A short poem for a girl who lived for only 50 minutes (Mon, 7 May 2012 10:35 pm)

Noetic-fret! on A short poem for a girl who lived for only 50 minutes (Mon, 7 May 2012 09:47 pm)

Patricia and Stefan Wilde on A short poem for a girl who lived for only 50 minutes (Mon, 7 May 2012 06:11 pm)

on The Hypocrites Vow (Sat, 21 Apr 2012 02:49 am)

Yvonne Brunton on The Hypocrites Vow (Fri, 20 Apr 2012 09:13 pm)

Posts To The Wire

Posts To The Wire


Ropes and chains flutter

And bars bend

In the breeze of imagination.

You rise

And water rises with you.

You breathe constancy

And the earth

Revolves beneath you.

You break the bread

Of humanity

And the earth is replete.


You. Forever out of reach

Are grasped by the snares of desire.


Tethered to thoughts


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A short poem for a girl who lived for only 50 minutes

For Ann Dacie


On 22nd May 2009 Ann Dacie was born.

She lived for 50 minutes and is buried in

Birstal Cemetery in Leicestershire.

This poem is for her.


Many lives in years are counted

With many deeds amounted.

The highest privilege of all, it’s reckoned,

Is to count a life in seconds.


Let her live her life a while longer than her funeral flow...

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The Hypocrites Vow

If you spent half the time you do

In trying to deceive me

Then I could tell you half a lie

And you would half believe me.

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When one night I dreamt’ I was sleeping
My eyes shut, my heart barely beating.
I lay, and lay reclined and reposed,
In depths nocturnal. In sleep, I supposed!
Then on and on, I lay again
Waiting for the dawns refrain.
Till it struck me through my calm
I had missed my stark alarm!
But on I lay, as one with my bed,
And dreamt’ I slept.
Or was I dead?


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Poem for childern


Approach him with care
For he knows you're there.
Shuffling through the dykes
His only protection, spikes.

If you go too near,
You’ll fill him up with fear.
Then without a cry or call
He’ll curl up in a ball.

He’s no threat to the dairies
And he’s a friend of the fairies.
“Pricky Back Ochtins” his name
And a 'Hog of the Hedge' he’ll remain.

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Meles Meles

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Through an erythristic eye he beholds his realm.

Behind his mask none can see he laughs.

Snuffling through leaf-mould Rufous sniffs his meal

Of  beetle,  worm, and slug, a slimy appeal.

Brock patrols the acre in which he neatly fits,

Marking its bound, he digs a pit….. and shits.

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Found Poem

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This poem is written using words taken from a letter I have, written by Ted Hughes in about 1978. The letter talks about a faith healer who in fact was Ted Cornish. The 'Ted' who was dedicated in Remains Of Elmet ! I don't know who the Norman is?



Fix with good word,

Carol Norman and Ted number up love

And pick up everything new.

We really say “Here’s us!” et...

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Walk Through Rain

I cut across the square

Toward warm light

Reflected in stone.

My perseverance through persistence

Draws a line to the vanishing point of purpose.


Light on the pavement

Each footfall Played teasingly

On the diffusion of light.


This I remember as a recalling

Years ago and with the rain clouding my mind.


Reinforcement, the image I made I su...

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An inoffensive old man

An inoffensive old man

Sits down and contemplates his situation

While the years have scored his forehead

Intimidated by the gaze

Of over-complicated fear.

From an early pose his neutrality

Falls away from the shackles of home.

Far from domesticity, flung away

From fear and intimidation of peers

So devoid of attachments.

But he sips warm milk.


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American Diner

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American Diner

Near constellations usurp a further nova across a firefly of avenues

That stretch beyond the appetite for rebellious isolation.

Where they congregate to be lonely together, with friends too near for comfort.

The nation forged on the flipside of a griddle holds another loneliness

Sitting at another table.


Between incandescence in the nearness of neon ...

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This country needs Clarkson

I'm glad Clarkson said what he did say. After all he has the right to be able to say it in this country even if you don't agree with him. For every 10 politically correct 'whet liberals' we need 1 Clarkson.

I may not agree with Clarkson but I will stand by him for his right to say what he said. Neither he nor anyone else in this country need ever apologise for that. It is totaly discussing and u...

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out spammed

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There was a young lad from Senegal
who dream't up a way to spam em all
he would request your account
and a certain amount
but never banked on Michael or Paul.

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I luv stephaine

A kind of weird dream type thing of a poem

Gathering Wool


As I think I walk through an orrery

Of aspirations in parallel to the sixth constant

And oppression in madness trims the borders

Where the feet of the dead pursue

And embrace every stranger.

Though chastity is born of consecration

The chasm of lust denies

The broken glimpse of a benevolent hell.

And we beckon, crying,

Smelling of the ...

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A kind of weird dream type thing of a poem

Wild Cat

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This is a work in progress concerning the decline in one of Britains most mysterious, beautiful and endangered mammals and one of our last truly wild animals.


Wild Cat

If I should leave now would you follow?

Leaving this hill to the plain winds and rain to weather down in torrents

The memory of me and a thousand other me’s?

If I should abandon this place to vermin and ...

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Poem for FH.

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How can I sit here ignoring you?

You pull and pull and pull at my sinews

If I keep still for long enough will you go away?

If I answer you will you return tomorrow?

You pull at me to be noticed, you cannot scream,

I see you, you cannot see me. You are blind

I feel you but you can not know I’m here

Eyeless and dumb you know nothing of me

You don’t know ...

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Hares are permanent,

Like ripe wheat

They burn in summer heat.


Hares are strong,

Their hind feet

Are steel coils.


Their legs hold

Latent power enough

To spin earth.


In fleeing they kick-up

The dust of their ancestors.

Dry dust of dead Hares.


Hares sleep in dust

As small brown humps.

Humble. They are their ...

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The Poetry Exhibition.


In 1987 I had the misfortune to have one of my poems (Hares) in a poetry exhibition in a North Wales Grammar School. My poem was pinned between one by William Blake and another by Spike Milligan. I thought, at the time, it was quite ironic that my poetry should be considered as falling somewhere between those of two such diverse yet highly regarded writers. Between these t...

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Leicester New Walk Gallery 2008

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(for Kathë Kollwitz)

She’s looking up
But her feet are firmly on the ground.
She breathes with a loathsome breath
And never learnt to walk on her toes.
As it was she could hardly eat
Without her children’s screams of hunger eating at her heart.
She pushes away her fears and her desires
As her children claw fruitlessly
At her empty, sagging, breast.
From that ...

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Two abstract poems.


Draws a reflection over the black.
To darken the dark of a silver spine.
Pearl-white, yet not white
Like the pearl, full spectrum gazes out
And mirrors shadows, reflecting, over the dark
To darken still the horizon of its solitude.



A healing through stones and earth
A resurrection when water burns
And flames flo...

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