R.M. Engelhardt. Writer~Poet-Albany,NY

Where you can find my thoughts & poems…

http://feeds.feedburner.com/RmEngelhardt

www.rmengelhardtpoet.com

http://albanypoetrm.blogspot.com

R.M. Engelhardt. Writer~Poet-Albany,NY

Where To Get My Books…

THE LAST CIGARETTE: THE COLLECTED POEMS OF R.M. ENGELHARDT

R.M. Engelhardt

First?

I want to thank all of you who have welcomed me onto Tumblr with my new blog. It’s great to find a place where your poems…work is thoroughly appreciated and where  what you have to contribute & say matters. Second? A few people have already asked me where they can find, purchase my books and that place would be on Scribd. Thank you all again for your friendship & support and I look forward to meeting & making more friends on here in the future.

Best!

Sincerely,

R.M. ENGELHARDT

ALBANY,NY

The Poems Of Twenty-Odd Six.

Poe...

Ahhhhhhh… Poetic

Thomas Wolfe and Jack Kerouac
Unicorns, God and the bible
Rimbaud, Venus and Lucifer 
 
All in a dream, and a smoke.
 
Death and the quiet of night
Gunshots romantic and sad
And Tupac, Cobain & Lennon
All sitting in a cafeteria 
 
                              Drinking coffee
                              Reading books
 
                              And discussing them
 
With Poe
 
 
Who nods and says...
 
                                          "Deep"
 
 
 
R.M. Engelhardt 2006


Love In The Mid-West
 

LOVE IN THE MID-WEST

In this dream.

You are a painting by Thomas Hart Benton with luxurious black hair and beautiful pale white skin

Asleep.

An old hillbilly a mid-west aging Pluto attempts to touch you, looks at you from around the corner in awe and sublime wonder and its obvious and plain to see that he is complete and completely in love with you as you lie in a Cinderella-like ecstasy naked in the middle of a rural Kansas field. Persephone he is softly saying, Persephone. But you cannot hear him speak and he cannot bear to take you. into the underground of his place, and his hell. In the back ground there is a wheat thresher and FDRs America, there is a wide open blue & empty sky full of white clouds and depression era beliefs, and you are Beautiful he murmurs Beautiful because Cupid has overtaken him and you have overtaken all his senses and he cannot ever leave.

So in this dream. …. you are a painting

In this dream. you are the spring and the awakening of all ancient wonders and all ancient things, hidden away among the fears and jealousies of all men who cannot see

The very things that makes you beautiful

“You”

R.M. Engelhardt 2006

In The Poetry Supermarket

In The Dysfunctional Poetry Super Market

Oh what fresh
New hell
Is this?
 
 
Looking at the expiration date I
Pick it up and then just as quickly
Put it back upon the shelf,
Leave it for some other poor
Bastard to find.
 
 
Besides, Ive already got a poem
Just like it
 
At home.
 
 
R.M. Engelhardt 2006






Pharaoh 

PHAROAH

So here we go again. I had to bail him out of jail in a place that you probably never heard of near Thebes. You see, back in those days he was kind of like one of your celebrities. The first “bad boy” on the scene before all your Colin Farrell’s & Sean Penn’s, Billy The Kids or Genghis Khans, before the setting sun ever came. Back then bad ass wore a scarab necklace, black eye mascara and a headdress. Fought the 12 snakes and the 12 arrows of the dead and got regularly fucked up like every other weekend. And the last time I saw him we were hanging out at a club called “The Underworld” doing shots with some girls off their navels. I don’t remember the names of the two girls I fucked but I do remember my buddy Set hooking up with some chick from outta town named Kali & immediately they hit it off like they were meant for each other or something and way too much alike. It was like heaven in the 9th sky where the indestructibles liked to hang. It was like climbing the pyramid, a resurrection machine and coming back to life time after time after time. It was a rush, it was a high like no other that you could ever experience. Screw your ecstasy & your science fiction. This was the shit. Long before all of your myths & legends we made your wild nights, necromancers & satanic worshipers look like a Christian book club and a kindergarten class on Halloween. And for awhile, Set & Kali went out on the town and raised hell. Had some fun, caused death, mass destruction and chaos. Broke some hearts and ruined some lives permanently. And then one night, it happened. Kali met some other guy, a local Hindu deity and Set and this boy got into a fight and the night sky blazed with bolts of lightning and thunder. Vedic boy lost and got his ass kicked”dead”. And anyone will tell you that there is nothing more useless than a dead god. Kali freaked and attacked Set and he got arrested by the advanced ones and that’s where I came in. Babysitting the Pharaoh & saving his assagain. So you see? Here we go again. Repeating history and time, repeating all the mistakes of the past. And where’s the lesson you ask? The lesson, is this. Stay away from the angry & insane and all of the vindictive people in this life and step off of the ego trip. Kill the drama and stop killing yourself and get rid of all of your long undead & overdue hate and outgrow your angry adolescence. Because after all, do you think that you’re immortal? A rock star or maybe even a president? Do you think that you’re a pharaoh or a god? Because even after just 100,000 years you like everything else will be forgotten, nothing but dust and sand and a useless footnote between the man-made histories of time. And no one, I say no one will ever give a fucking damn. So what do you want? A gravestone that says that you lived or a legacy that says you’re alive? Or how about just living your life for a change

“Instead”.

R.M. Engelhardt 2006

Houdini & The Afterlife

Houdini & The Afterlife

Houdini & The Afterlife

And now,

Your attention please
Ladies and gentlemen

Join hands…

In a “Séance”

Halloween.

The gone goodbye. The last touch for the last time
all dies and memories all linger & all fade

Leave.

Requiem.

Invite the ghosts for all the
night and all the long
days which they have waited

energies ionized
multiplied and magnified,
minimized by all of their shells
and souls, thoughts &
incantations. the beings who you no longer want or
even want to be. wanted to see glamorized
and desensitized. all once originals off the shelf.
For you must now sleep ~ dream manifest and bury all their
remains. For life is like a lion or a goddess,
a secret history of all these things of being awake….and walking

without the privilege of being seen the
never meant to be that was never meant into being again
which slips away. into the real and in the incomprehensible darkness,

Like the mysteries & the chains

this life and you the  E C H O

We wait… for the sign;

E

S C A

P E

IN TO

THE VAST

LIGHT

OF

BE –

ING

Where.

At a table, we all sit

The electricity. In a room where the voice was lost,
darkness gone eyes closed as the magician enters

They awaited the message

“Turn out the light”

http://www.hulu.com/watch/184742/biography-houdini-the-great-escape

__________________

R.M. ENGELHARDT 2011 

LEXIKON…

Lexikon ...

LEXIKON

Initiate.

Trans-mute, Transcend
All “Matter”

Bring Forth,
And Thus Summon

All Gods … And Words
Obsolete (They Return)

Creation. Soul. Dimension. Time.

AWAKEN “The Dead”

Sound~ECHO Of Crashing Waves Entities
Dying Against All Flesh Bleeding, Bled

Into VOICE.

As the Smoke Of Her Cigarettes, Her Smell
& The Image Of Her Body All Still Linger,

Like A Poem, Perfume Instilled

Unto That One Perfect Dream

Of Youth.

Spring.

Roar.

Snow.

Moon.

Soar In & Thru

Eternity, A Song
Of Beauty Beneath & Hidden
Between

“Days”

To Wish To Pray
To Become & Believe

In Some Vacant Thought

Un-Aware

Called “Inspiration”

_____________

R.M. ENGELHARDT 2011

Comte Lautremont~The Songs of Malador

The First Voyage…

Here on my blog it’s one thing to read or check out my work but as I have been doing now for some years I wish to share and explore the works of poets & writers whom I’ve labeled “Un-Sung Heroes”. Among these writers, musicians and poets in the past have been Steve Kilbey (Poet, Painter & Musician) of the band The Church, Michael Stanley (Musician), Aragon, Thomas Wolfe & many others In the future I now intend to explore more of the writings and poems of many other gifted writers of the past & the present, among them the American, British & French Surrealists and what have been referred to also as the “Vagabond Poets”Among them? Charles Baudelaire, Arthur Rimbaud , The Marquis De Sade, Edgar Allan Poe & others such as Francois Villion, William Blake, Dante & Voltaire.

So to begin with, I have chosen Comte de Lautréamont whose real name was Isidore  Ducasse, 1846–1870. Born in Montevideo, Uruguay, he moved to Paris in 1867, where he lived like a hermit until his death at the age of 24. In 1870 he published a volume of poetry, Poésies. He is best known for his only other work, Les Chants de Maldoror (1868, tr. 1943), a nightmarish epic poem replete with grotesque, often erotic, imagery. Because of his hallucinatory, nonrepresentational style, Lautréamont was viewed by the surrealists as a progenitor.”

Isidore Lucien Ducasse-Malador

Les Chants de Maldoror is a poem of six cantos which are subdivided into 60 verses of different length (I/14, II/16, III/5, IV/8, V/7, VI/10). The verses were originally not numbered, but rather separated by lines. The final eight verses of the last canto form a small novel, and were marked with Roman numerals. Each canto closes with a line to indicate its end.

It is difficult to summarize the work because it does not have specific plot in the traditional sense, and the narrative style is non-linear and often surrealistic. The work concerns the misanthropic character of Maldoror, a figure of absolute evil who is opposed to God and humanity, and has renounced conventional morality and decency. The iconoclastic imagery and tone is typically violent and macabre, and ostensibly nihilistic. Much of the imagery was borrowed from the popular gothic literature of the period, in particular Lord Byron’s Manfred, Charles Robert Maturin’s Melmoth the Wanderer and Goethe’s Faust. Of these figures, the latter two are particularly significant in their description of a negative and Satanic anti-hero who is in hostile opposition to God. The last eight stanzas of the final canto are in a way a small novel dealing with the seduction and murder of a youth.

At the beginning and end of the cantos, the text often refers to the work itself; Lautréamont also references himself in the capacity of the author of the work; Isidore is recognized as the “Montevidean”. In order to enable the reader to realise that he is embarking on a “dangerous philosophical journey”, Lautréamont uses stylistic means of identification with the reader, a procedure which author Baudelaire already used in his introduction of Les Fleurs du Mal. He also comments on the work, providing instructions for reading. The first sentence contains a “warning” to the reader.

FIRST CANTO

Stanza 1: The Reader Forewarned

God grant that the reader, emboldened and having become at present as fierce as what he is reading, find, without loss of bearings, his way, his wild and treacherous passage through the desolate swamps of these sombre, poison-soaked pages; for, unless he should bring to his reading a rigorous logic and a sustained mental effort at least as strong as his distrust, the lethal fumes of this book shall dissolve his soul as water does sugar. It is not right that everyone read the pages that follow: a sole few will savour this bitter fruit without danger. As a result, wavering soul, before penetrating further into such uncharted barrens, draw back, step no deeper. Mark my words: draw back, step no deeper, like the eyes of a son respectfully flinching away from his mother’s august contemplation, or rather, like an acute angle formation of cold-sensitive cranes stretching beyond the eye can reach, soaring through the winter silence in deep meditation, under tight sail towards a focal point on the horizon, from where there suddenly rises a peculiar gust of wind, omen of a storm. The oldest crane, alone at the forefront, on seeing this, shakes his head like a rational person and consequently his beak too, which he clicks, as he is uneasy (and so would I be, in his shoes); whilst his old, feather-stripped neck, contemporary of three generations of cranes, sways in irritated undulations that foreshadow the oncoming thunderstorm. After looking with composure several times in every direction with eyes that bespeak experience, the first crane (for he is the privileged one to show his tail feathers to the other, intellectually inferior cranes) vigilantly cries out like a melancholy sentinel driving back the common enemy, and then carefully steers the nose of the geometric figure (it would be a triangle, but the third side, formed in space by these curious avian wayfarers, is invisible), be it to port, or to starboard, like a skilful captain; and, manoeuvring with wings that seem no larger than those of a sparrow, he thus adopts, since he is no dumb creature, a different and safer philosophical course.

– Isidore Lucien Ducasse.

Born April 4, 1846 in Montevideo, Uruguay
Ethnicity: French
Residences: Paris, Tarbes, Pau, France, Montevideo, Uruguay,
Died November 24, 1870 in Paris, France
Nationality: French
Language: French

Little is known about Isidore Lucien Ducasse, who later took the pseudonym Le Comte de Lautreamont. He was born in Montevideo, Uruguay on April 4, 1846 to a French Consular Officer and his wife. His mother died when he was 18 months old, a suspected suicide. His youth in Uruguay remains a mystery, though we know that during this Ducasse’s youth civil wars and outbreaks of cholera beset the region.

When Isidore was 10, his father returned to France briefly and left young Ducasse with relatives in Tarbes to finish school. Isidore attended a couple of lycées in Tarbes and Pau where he was remembered as sullen introvert with a sharp voice and a distant, haughty demeanor.

At school, Lucien displayed a dislike for Latin and Mathematics, but showed interest in literature. He dismayed his teachers with ‘excesses of thought and style’, which, oddly, would later earn him a permanent place in French literature. After leaving school at 19, it is speculated that Ducasse traveled, perhaps to visit his father in Uruguay or in the Bordeaux region in France where he may have made literary contacts. Lucien received an allowance from his father that ensured him a comfortable living situation during his travels.

In 1867 or 1868, Lucien moved to Paris to study at the Polytechnic or School of Mines, though no enrollment records exist. While in Paris, most scholars assume he began composing Maldoror, (a name that has received various interpretations, from ‘dawn of evil’ to ‘evil from the beginning.’). Lucien took his own pseudonym, Lautreamont, presumably from Eugene Sue’s novel “Lautreamont”, which features an arrogant and blasphemous hero similar to Lucien’s Maldoror character. His publisher said that Lautreamont ‘only wrote at night seated at his piano. He would declaim his sentences as he forged them, punctuating his harangues with chords on the piano.’

In 1868, Lautreamont traveled to Uruguay to show his father the first part of Maldoror and get him to finance its publication. The first canto was published anonymously in 1868. Lautreamont arranged to have the entire work published a few months later by a Belgium printer who was partners with Lautreamont’s French publisher, Albert Lacroix, who had worked as an editor for Emile Zola, Victor Hugo, and Pierre-Joseph Proudhon. The book was printed in the summer of 1869, but Lacroix and company feared prosecution because of the blasphemous and obscene nature of the work and never put the book on sale. Lautreamont pressed his publishers to release the book to no avail.

A year later, Lautreamont wrote them about his new collection of poems, a seeming negation of Maldoror that spoke of ‘hope, faith, calm, happiness and duty.‘Lautreamont did not complete this work, nor did he see his Maldoror available to the public during his lifetime.’

Lautreamont died November 24, 1870 in a Paris hotel room at the age of 24. In 1874, after the publishing house changed hands, Lautreamont’s works were finally made available to the public, but this initial publication met with little commercial success. It was not until a Belgian literary journal published Lautreamont’s work in 1885 that his work began to emerge from obscurity and find an audience among the literary avant-garde.

It was the 1927 publication of Lautreamont’s work in a magazine entitled, “At Any Cost” released by the Surrealists Philippe Soupault and Andre Breton that assured Lautreamont a permanent place in French literature, and conferred the status of The Patron Saint of the Surrealist movement.

Les Chants de Maldoror is considered to have been a major influence upon French Symbolism, Dada, and Surrealism. Several editions of the book have included lithographs by the French symbolist painter Odilon Redon. Surrealist painter Salvador Dalí also illustrated one edition of the book. The Italian painter Amedeo Modigliani used to carry a copy around in Montparnasse and quote from it. The outsider artist Unica Zürn was also influenced by it in writing her The Man of Jasmine. William T. Vollmann mentioned it as the most influenced book for his writing life.

 

To Read The Songs Of Malador In French ?

http://www.gutenberg.org/catalog/world/readfile?fk_files=2042913

Sources:

WIKIPEDIA


Collected Poems Article, 2006.

Engelhardt Publishes His Collected Poems

MICHAEL ECK Special to the Times Union
Section: Arts-Events, Page: H1

Date: Sunday, October 29, 2006THE LAST CIGARETTE : R.M. Engelhardt

THE LAST CIGARETTE : R.M. Engelhardt

R.M. Engelhardt wears black sunglasses in the shade. He chain-smokes Djarums until his head is wreathed in a clove-scented cloud. And, in the middle of the day, he sucks down coffee like a trucker on a midnight run.

Engelhardt, in case you haven’t already figured it out, is a poet. But he doesn’t just walk the role, he talks it, too. In fact, he’s been speaking his poetic mind in public for more than a decade, at least on occasion as the host the long-running Vox and School of Night readings series, both of which he founded, fostered and produced at local nightclubs. Engelhardt, 42, is one of the leading lights of the Albany poetry scene, and he is finally, rightfully, celebrating himself with the publication of “The Last Cigarette: The New & Collected Poems of R.M. Engelhardt” on his own Dead Man’s Press.

He calls the work, which includes selections previously published in journals, online magazines and in his own chapbooks, “a handbook of my life.”

Q: Why do you write poetry?

A: Why do people breathe? Why do people make music?

I’ve been writing since I was a kid. I wrote a Greek myth when I was 12 years old. We were studying Greek myths and my sixth-grade teacher freaked out. That was my first clue it was like, hmmm, I did something interesting.

When I was about 15 years old, I was a Doors fan. I liked Jim Morrison and all that. Then I read (Danny Sugerman’s Morrison biography) “No One Here Gets Out Alive” and he made references to Blake and Rimbaud and other poets. Of course, being an introverted, quiet kid, in junior high, with glasses, the whole thing, I spent my time in the library, in the corner, reading all those books.

I started writing a lot at that time. It’s just a part of life. It’s who I am.

Q: Your work has been published and you’ve performed it as well, which do you prefer, the page or the stage?

A: Actually, I’m more partial to the page. I’ve written more than just poetry. I’ve written prose pieces and things like that, which are also in the book. I like the craft of writing itself.

I do enjoy performing, but I find lately that I’m staying in more and writing, rather than going out all the time.

It’s kind of crucial that you have a place where you can share your work with other people and perform your stuff and get feedback on it, but as I’m getting older I see that the form and the style in the clubs is changing, with poetry slams and poetry battles.

I’m old-school, and my style is different from what’s coming out now. You won’t see me doing any slams in the future. I’ve done them before, but it’s not for me.

Q: Why Albany?

A: I’m a sixth-generation Albanian. That’s one reason. My family’s been here since 1890.

Albany is where I grew up. It’s a part of me. A lot of people I know have died here. Their memories are here. It’s my city. It’s my town.

I tried Florida, just to see what it was like. I thought maybe I would stay in the Keys there’s a great quality to the way it’s laid back there but the funny thing was, I had nothing to write about. It wasn’t like Hemingway-land. It was more geared toward parrots, bad shirts and rich eccentrics with long beards.

Albany is it. I’ll probably live here the rest of my life.

Besides, in Florida it was very hard to find clove cigarettes.

Q: If you could trade places with one writer, who would it be?

A: I’d love to be in the Renaissance era, when poets were rock stars. But if it had to be one person, it would probably be Baudelaire or Poe but hopefully with a happier life and a nicer mustache.

Since I was a kid, Poe has been one of those influences that’s been inescapable. His work, his stories, they’re phenomenal. He had an imagination like you wouldn’t believe. At the same time I wouldn’t want to end up in his shoes. He died alone, and nobody wants to die alone.

Q: What do words mean to you?

A: Words are powerful. Words make a difference. They can create and destroy. They can open doors and close doors. Words can create illusion or magic, love or destruction. … All those things.

Michael Eck, a freelance writer from Albany, is a frequent contributor to the Times Union.

****FACT BOX:****

Verse and a `Cigarette’

Here are excerpts from R.M. Engelhardt’s “The Last Cigarette”:

“THE LAST CIGARETTE”

I think of you tonight

As I smoke my last cigarette.

I inhale

And in the smoke

I see you

Disappear…

_____________

http://www.scribd.com/doc/17440405/THE-LAST-CIGARETTE-THE-COLLECTED-POEMS-OF-RM-ENGELHARDT-19892006-Read-in-Fullscreen