Who is Rex Mundi?
Rex Mundi is an American comic book published by Image Comics (2003–06) and Dark Horse Comics (2006–09), written by Arvid Nelson and drawn by Argentinian artist Juan Ferreyra. In all, 19 issues were published by Image before the series moved to Dark Horse, where a further 19 were published before the title ended.
The series is a quest for the Holy Grail told as a murder mystery. It is set in the year 1933, in an alternate history Europe, where magic is real, feudalism persisted, and the Protestant Reformation was crushed by a still politically powerful Catholic Church. All of this is woven together as “… a meditation on the prophecies surrounding the advent of the Bahá’í era.” The book takes its name from the Latin term meaning King of the World. It is derived from the Cathar heresies of the Middle Ages, and taken up in works like The Holy Blood and the Holy Grail. Within the Cathar context it seems to have been equated with the Demiurge.
~ From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
I WAS ONCE DEAD TOO
In a famous painting
of Christ nailed to
and crucified upon the cross
I am the watching
leper on the right.
And with my one good eye
I watch as Jesus dies
and screams up into
darkening sky asking
his father for a reason
And then, suddenly
as the clouds open up
and the rain begins
the Romans scatter like mice,
the water, burning off their
flesh like corrosive acid.
As I feel the wetness upon my
skin like the warmth of a beautiful woman
touching my face, I raise my
hands outward, and I am healed.
When a voice comes
which tells me I am now
the angel of death, and the
watcher in the eternity
that is time, wandering
The screams of both Jesus,
and his murderers the Romans
now a distant sound & memory
in a world without messiahs
or miracles to amaze us.
which remain unanswered.
~ R.M. Engelhardt
The Saint Poem Reading Series, Albany-NY
SAINT POEM READING SERIES FOR POETS COMES TO THE UPSTATE ARTISTS GUILD
Reading Set To Bring New Voices & New Poetry To The Capital Region In The Arts Community.
Poetry is just the evidence of life. If your life is burning well, poetry is just the ash. ~Leonard Cohen
SAINT POEM : A New Open Mic For Poets & Writers Held Monthly At The UAG
Poetry…Poets & Experimental Writing. Featured Poets & Their Work As Well As Themes. These Are The Things That Have Made Poetry Open Mics Unique & Interesting Over The Years And That Have Kept The Voices Returning.
SAINT POEM Is A New Reading Series Which Will Encourage New Poets & Writers And Change In The Albany,NY Poetry-And Open Mic Scene. This Reading Is All About The Work, The Writing…And Most Importantly, The Words!
This Event Is Sponsored By The UAG & MythicAlbany-AlbanyAtNight And Hosted By Veteran Albany Poet, R.M. Engelhardt.
THE SAINT POEM READING SERIES For Poets & Poetry. An Open Mic Held Every 3rd MONDAY EVENING OF EACH MONTH!
7.30pm Sign Up~8pm Start Time. $4.00 Donation Requested.
Sponsored By The UAG & MythicAlbany.
Upstate Artists Guild
247 Lark Street
Albany, NY 12210
To be a boxer, or not to be there
at all. O Muse, where are our teeming crowds?
Twelve people in the room, eight seats to spare
it’s time to start this cultural affair.
Half came inside because it started raining,
the rest are relatives. O Muse.
The women here would love to rant and rave,
but that’s for boxing. Here they must behave.
Dante’s Infemo is ringside nowadays.
Likewise his Paradise. O Muse.
Oh, not to be a boxer but a poet,
one sentenced to hard shelleying for life,
for lack of muscles forced to show the world
the sonnet that may make the high-school reading lists
with luck. O Muse,
O bobtailed angel, Pegasus.
In the first row, a sweet old man’s soft snore:
he dreams his wife’s alive again. What’s more,
she’s making him that tart she used to bake.
Aflame, but carefully-don’t burn his cake!
we start to read. O Muse.
– Wislawa Szymborska
like the words or like the poem
or like the man who lost his favorite song
his muse, his wife his dog
and if it ain’t gonna walk, it begs,
and eventually dies
solitary-slow, old & torn up, screaming like some
bloody blood drenched heart
a sonnet that once ached, breathed screamed in life
history, ancient war. a ghost echo
still heard by soldiers shell shocked & fucked up
by the night
whispering dreaming secretly, for sirens.
wives….mothers….but never, for gods
but only, for what remains
and is good…right
and lo, tho I walk thru
the valley of despair I still hope
that there be some cigarettes there,
or corpses, celebrities with new boots
to write about
on writing paper
an inspirational travelogue
of the damned
as somewhere, in all of your nightmares
flying horses falter at the dome
and there are too many stars in the sky
the fireflies no longer seen
and too full
Please see me thru another day
And may to thee I pray that the
words doth flow like the river
like life, like shit
to worship nothing
but the poem itself
for in the beginning?
there was heaven & earth
and neanderthals in berets
and they, they all prayed to you.
Saint Poem…Saint Muse
Oh, speak to thee like
a third eye, transmission from heaven
Savior of writers block
Guardian of the ancient word,
Please, I pray send me another
terrible lay, an angry muse
an interesting day, or even
a sunset dressed in black
something…anything to write about
R.M. Engelhardt 2011
Birth: May 26, 1892
Death: Feb. 6, 1954
Blinder than oak-trees in the wind
Endlessly weaving sighs into a poem
He sits, the light of one pale purple lantern
Seeping into his dream-hollowed face,
Like floating, transparent words
Pale with unuttered meanings.
He mends a flute and sighs as though
Its shadow leaned heavily upon his heart
And told him things his dead eyes could not grasp.
To One Dead
I walked upon a hill
And the wind, made solemnly drunk with your presence,
Reeled against me.
I stooped to question a flower,
And you floated between my fingers and the petals,
Tying them together.
I severed a leaf from its tree
And a water-drop in the green flagon
Cupped a hunted bit of your smile.
All things about me were steeped in your remembrance
And shivering as they tried to tell me of it
Novelist and Poet. Once considered a leading modernist author of the early 20th Century, he is credited with introducing the spirit of French Naturalism into American Literature. His novel “Replenishing Jessica” (1925), a brutally frank tale about a young woman’s sexual liberation among seedy bohemians, was the subject of a famous obscenity trial that helped loosen censorship restrictions in the United States. When the court ruled in Bodenheim’s favor, New York City Mayor Jimmy Walker concurred with the quip, “No girl has ever been seduced by a book.” Bodenheim was born in Hermanville, Mississippi, and moved to Chicago with his family in 1900. There he became the center of a literary clique that included his good friend (and later enemy) Ben Hecht. His first book of poetry, “Minna and Myself” (1918), was praised by Carl Sandburg, William Carlos Williams, and Conrad Aiken. In 1920 Bodenheim settled in Greenwich Village, New York, and lived there the rest of his life. During the Jazz Age he was called America’s “King of the Literary Bohemians” and was notorious for his drinking, feuding, and womanizing. He was said to have resembled a young Kirk Douglas or Pat Riley, and women apparently found him irresistible. In one frenetic year, 1928, two women killed themselves after he dumped them, and two more attempted suicide. (A fifth ex-girlfriend died in a subway crash, her pockets stuffed with Bodenheim’s love letters). Despite all this dissipation he was a fairly prolific writer, producing 13 novels, 10 volumes of poems, and the memoir “My Life and Loves in Greenwich Village” (1950). His other works include the poetry collections “Introducing Irony” (1922), “The Sardonic Arm” (1923), and “Against This Age” (1925), and the novels “Blackguard” (1923), “Naked on Roller Skates” (1930), and “New York Madness” (1933). Bodenheim’s reputation declined after the Great Depression and by the early 1950s he was a homeless derelict, selling poems for drinks and panhandling. During the freezing New York winters he made his much younger third wife, alcoholic former journalist Ruth Fagin, prostitute herself in exchange for shelter. This activity cost both their lives. On February 7, 1954, the couple were found murdered in a dingy, heatless room; Bodenheim had been shot twice, Fagin stabbed to death. The confessed killer, Harold Weinburg, was judged incompetent to stand trial and served six years in a mental institution. The crime made Bodenheim news one last time, after which he receded from history. Today his books are out of print and he is unjustly remembered only for his dissolute life and lurid demise. (bio by: Robert Edwards)
Cedar Park Cemetery
New Jersey, USA
www.rmengelhardtpoet.com Albany, NY based poet, writer R.M. Engelhardt has published several books over the last decade including Nod~Logos~Alchemy~The Last Cigarette: The Collected Poems of R.M. Engelhardt & others. His current experimental book of poetry & prose is called “Versus~Lexikon 2010” A poet & writer, Engelhardt through his ideas & visions has helped to create a large amount of the Upstate, Albany, NY spoken word~poetry scene and is the host of Albany’s most interesting poetry-Performance forum “GHOST IN THE MACHINE” @ The Fuze Box on every last Friday evening of each month. Thru his efforts along with such writers as Thom Francis he has created such groups the Albany Poetry Syndicate as well as Albany Poets (Now www.AlbanyPoets.com), which have left a lasting mark on the upstate NY literary scene. His work has also been published by many journals both in print including Retort, Danse Macabre, Outsider Ink, Sure! The Charles Bukowski Newsletter, Copious Amounts, Thunder Sandwich, The Angry Poet, Zygote In My Coffee, Full of Crow & many others. R.M. currently lives in Albany, NY. His books are available on Scribd www.scribd.com
DEMOLISHED … For Ms. Friday Night.
IN SEASONS OF
In seasons of
In her language
A gracious chance which I have received
All others removed
in her light
With lovely face upon me
therefore towards love,
Longing has come upon me
And a neck, beauty whiter
than any maiden seen.
Wooing in morning
worn out from waking
Alive as in action. Happy-
Oh heart, oh love
Do not deprive me
For I have been worrying long since,
Endured for a time
Fairest beneath her clothing
A song of us
By the lark
And the mourning doves
Where time is patient
And our patience time
R.M. Engelhardt 2011