Such words,

Poetry rare

Exulting reality

Into voice           Expression

Into being

Being       into form.

From out of ashes

Out of seasons

Years time and reason

And from out of every man

Woman born


All truths   shadows   And all loves

Destructions and voices


Complete and thus returning

Like Angels

Like Gods

Again to tell their stories

Or to tell the tale

The myth, the verse or the prayer

The hymn manifested


For here is your


Your villain

And your Goddess renewing

The world

And here is your song:

Their song

Our song

All songs

Beginning &

Then ending again

These poems and these words

A dance     A waltz

These songs remaining, returning

Like every prophecy foretold in

The past   The present  & The future

Born from

Every sun

Every star

Every moon

And every daughter

Within every universe


For this place, world

Is a universe made up

Of dust & words, language

And resurrections






And sorrows


Such words, such voices

Poetry rare

Exulting reality beyond

A human heart

So human, so frail

This song which never ends.



Copyright 2013.



R.M. Engelhardt is an underground writer whose poetry and writing has been widely published in many online magazines as well as in print magazines over the last  20 years or so. He is the author of several books such as “The Last Cigarette, The Collected Poems Of R.M. Engelhardt” and many others and in style is comparable to such writers as Nick Tosches, Charles Bukowski, Pessoa and even a bit of the mystic and Rimbaud are thrown in as well. What speaks to you in his poems is the crafting of the ordinary and its beauty as well as the gritty, daily reality of life and living in the 21st century. Engelhardt’s poems in this book, ”The Resurrection Waltz” Engelhardt also speaks about the questions and the relevancy of poetry and the place of the poet in a technology driven future age where it seems that the poem and poetry has been forgotten and or has been left for dead (Saint Poem).
There is even a piece in here where the poet turns to the late musician Warren Zevon and a bottle of scotch for answers to some of life’s more romantic questions. Overall? I enjoyed this book quite a bit and am glad I bought it.

~ inthedancingwave (Barnes & Noble Customer Reviews)

 *Thank You! ~ R.M. Engelhardt




un-art and poetry to mere literality

un-art and poetry to mere literality


And he knew also that the duty of all art lay in this sort of truth, lay in the self-perceptive finding and proclaiming of truth, the duty which has been laid on the artist, so that the soul, realizing the great equilibrium between the ego and the universe, might recover herself in the universe, perceiving in this self-recognition that the deepening of the ego was an increase of substance in the universe, in the world, especially in humanity, and even though this doubled growth was only a symbolic one, bound from the beginning to the symbolization of the beautiful, to that of the beautiful boundary, even though it were but a symbolic perception, it was precisely by this means that it was enabled to widen the inner and outer boundaries of existence to new reality, even though these boundaries might not be crossed, widening them not merely to a new form but to the new content of reality which they enclosed, in which the deepest secret of reality, the secret of correlation was revealed, the mutual relation existing between the realities of the self and the world, which lent the symbol the precision of rightness and exalted it to be the symbol of truth, the truth-bearing correlation from which arose every creation of reality, pressing on through level after level, penetrating toward, groping toward the unattainable dark realms of beginning and ending, pushing on toward the inscrutable divinity in the universe, in the world, in the soul of one’s fellow-men, pushing on toward that ultimate spark of the divine, that secret, which, ready to be disclosed and to be awakened, could be found everywhere, even in the soul of the most degraded —, this, the disclosure of the divine through the self-perceptive knowledge of the individual soul, this was the task of art, its human duty, its perceptive duty and therefore its reason for being, the proof of which was art’s nearness to death, and its duty, since only in this nearness might art become real, only thus unfolding into a symbol of the human soul; verily this he knew.

But he knew also that the beauty of the symbol, were it ever so precise in its reality, was never its own excuse for being, that whenever such was the case, whenever beauty existed for its own sake, there art was attacked at its very roots, because the created deed then came to be its own opposite, because the thing created was then suddenly substituted for that which creates, the empty form for the true content of reality, the merely beautiful for the perceptive truth, in a constant confusion, in a constant cycle of change and reversion, an inbound cycle in which renewal was no longer possible, in which nothing more could be enlarged, in which there was nothing more to be discovered, neither the divine nor the abandoned, nor the abandoned in human divinity, but in which there was only intoxication with empty forms and empty words, whereby art through this lack of discrimination and even of fidelity, was reduced to un-art, and poetry to mere literality; verily, this he knew, knew it painfully.

The Death of Virgil, Hermann Broch


“Describe your sorrows and desires, the thoughts that pass through your mind and your belief in some kind of beauty – describe all these with heartfelt, silent, humble sincerity and, when you express yourself, use the Things around you, the images from your dreams, and the objects that you remember. If your everyday life seems poor, don’t blame it; blame yourself; admit to yourself that you are not enough of a poet to call forth its riches; because for the creator there is not poverty and no poor, indifferent place. And even if you found yourself in some prison, whose walls let in none of the world’s sounds – wouldn’t you still have your childhood, that jewel beyond all price, that treasure house of memories? Turn your attentions to it. Try to raise up the sunken feelings of this enormous past; your personality will grow stronger, your solitude will expand and become a place where you can live in the twilight, where the noise of other people passes by, far in the distance. And if out of this turning-within, out of this immersion in your own world, poems come, then you will not think of asking anyone whether they are good or not. Nor will you try to interest magazines in these works: for you will see them as your dear natural possession, a piece of your life, a voice from it. A work of art is good if it has arisen out of necessity.”

~ Rainier Maria Rilke
Lord Byron
The Future Is Now …

On with the dance! let joy be unconfin’d
No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet
To chase the Glowing Hours with Flying feet”

~ George Gordon Byron, Selected Poetry of Lord Byron



Back in 1994 she was the model of all French fashion, her hair slightly unclean and tied up in a Princess Leia double knot cinnamon bun. She’s always late but ahead of her time. Never shaves her underarms and on occasion, wears makeup, and even glasses. All of the time talking to me on the phone she decries America, God, country and all of the boring bland music of the Rolling Stones at once.

And from her bedroom this morning she says “I am thinking of moving to Seattle”, “There they know art!”

Yeah whatever, I reply, adjusting her very large Persian cat off my lap who always seems to sit on my nuts, crushing them as if cleverly taught. “I am moving Rob, Did you hear me?”

This I something that she does to get some Pavlovian response when she’s curious about “feelings”, but I know her game and it never works. And so I answer back “You’re only 24 and all you do is listen to goth!”

The Bauhaus is turned up as her answer back as I can hear her pee in the bathroom.

She puts her stockings, black combat boots & lipstick on and pulls up her short catholic schoolgirl dress with no underwear beneath. “Oh yeah? Well you’re an old fucking jazz cadaver!”

I am told with a smile as her cat calmly watches from the windowsill like tennis.

But now its Sunday morning, almost noon and she has to go to work, and like

Dracula’s Renfield drawn to the fly its springtime in New York.

And soon, she will eventually move to Boston instead of Seattle, never knowing, never hearing the truth.

That she was all of my favorite things and that the time machine of the mind can never replace “feel”





If death is like a sonnet then life would be a haiku. The sonnet, a lyrical poem, the beauty and magic with the last breath~ love, words fading and floating off into the abyss that is space whilst our everyday lives or days more important than normal become just a mere whisper in only a few short syllables through which we convey with our hearts the truth of the universe in a single moment briefly.

~ R.M. Engelhardt