Collected Poems

Surrealist Poems

Surrealist Poems - I

    I heard the coockcouck jabbering on the lea
And saw the spokesman sprinting on the spud;
The airmale soared to heaven majestically
And dropped down with a strange miraculous thud.
    I could not break the bosom of the blue;
I went for a walk and waltzed with woe awhile.
The cat surprised me with a single mew;
The porridge was magnificently vile.
    These things are symbols if you understand,
But who can understand when poets resolve
To nothing mean. The beautiful beast is banned;
The problem grows too difficult to solve.

[The heart of the surrealist poet should be unfathomable. The problem is how to mean nothing, yet seem to mean anything or everything. His poetry should be at once about nothing at all and about all things in particular; nonsensically profound and irrationally beautiful. Unknown and extraordinary words are not indispensable in its texture but can have a place, if sparingly and mystically used. One who can do these things and others of a congenital character is a surrealist poet: Willy Whistler.]

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Surrealist Poems - II

My way is over the Moro river,
Amid projectiles and sad smiles.
Wind bottles in a ghastly jam
Explode before you can say damn.
But the jam is over and we have passed:
Alas, felicity can never last!
I see an aeroplane on high,
I hear it sob and sigh.
Fate happier has been yours, my lad,
For you are dead and I am mad.
Kiss not the corpse but shove it in.
Ah let the booby trap be.
There is a moan upon the moving sea.

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