Arthur Seymour John Tessimond

(19 July 1902 - 13 May 1962 / Birkenhead, England)

Arthur Seymour John Tessimond Poems

1. Symphony In Red 4/17/2015
2. Seaport 1/13/2003
3. Wet City Night 1/13/2003
4. Tube Station 1/13/2003
5. One Almost Might 1/13/2003
6. Polyphony In A Cathedral 1/13/2003
7. Quickstep 1/13/2003
8. O 1/13/2003
9. Night Piece 1/13/2003
10. The British 1/13/2003
11. Black Morning Lovesong 3/17/2012
12. Sea 1/13/2003
13. Houses 1/13/2003
14. Never 1/13/2003
15. June Sick Room 1/13/2003
16. To Be Blind 1/13/2003
17. Meeting 1/13/2003
18. Earthfast 1/13/2003
19. The Children Look At The Parents 1/13/2003
20. Nursery Rhyme For A Twenty-First Birthday 1/13/2003
21. Last Word To Childhood 1/13/2003
22. Epilogue 1/13/2003
23. One Day 10/1/2006
24. Flight Of Stairs 1/13/2003
25. Chaplin 1/13/2003
26. Black On Black 1/13/2003
27. Bells, Pool And Sleep 1/13/2003
28. Unlyric Love Song 1/13/2003
29. Epitaph On A Disturber Of His Times 1/13/2003
30. Epitaph For Our Children 1/13/2003
31. Don Juan 1/13/2003
32. Empty Room 1/13/2003
33. Cocoon For A Skeleton 1/13/2003
34. Cats 1 1/13/2003
35. Discovery 1/13/2003
36. Any Man Speaks 1/13/2003
37. Cinema Screen 1/13/2003
38. Music 1/13/2003
39. Betrayal 1/13/2003
40. Attack On The Ad-Man 1/13/2003
Best Poem of Arthur Seymour John Tessimond

Cats

Cats no less liquid than their shadows
Offer no angles to the wind.
They slip, diminished, neat through loopholes
Less than themselves; will not be pinned

To rules or routes for journeys; counter
Attack with non-resistance; twist
Enticing through the curving fingers
And leave an angered empty fist.

They wait obsequious as darkness
Quick to retire, quick to return;
Admit no aim or ethics; flatter
With reservations; will not learn

To answer to their names; are seldom
Truly owned till shot or skinned.
Cats no less liquid than their ...

Read the full of Cats

Chaplin

The sun, a heavy spider, spins in the thirsty sky.
The wind hides under cactus leaves, in doorway corners. Only the wry

Small shadow accompanies Hamlet-Petrouchka's march - the slight
Wry sniggering shadow in front of the morning, turning at noon, behind towards night.

The plumed cavalcade has passed to tomorrow, is lost again;
But the wisecrack-mask, the quick-flick-fanfare of the cane remain.

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