Poet and writer R.M. Engelhardt will be the featured reader 2017 Albany
Word Fest edition of the Albany Poets Presents reading series at Restaurant Navona (89 New Scotland Avenue, Albany) on Wednesday, April 19, 2017.
Albany Poets Presents puts a spin on the typical poetry event in the local literary community by highlighting one poet every two months with an interview and Q&A session following the reading
R.M. Engelhardt is a veteran poet & writer whose work over the years has appeared in many journals & magazines including Rusty Truck, Thunder Sandwich, The Boston Literary Review, The NY Times, Full of Crow, Dry Land Lit, The Outlaw Poetry Network, Telepoem & in many others. He is one of the original co-founders’ of Albany Poets and is currently the host of the Troy Poetry Mission, a monthly open mic for poets held in Troy, NY.
On Friday, January 20th Donald J. Trump will be sworn in as The President of the United States of America.
This will be a very sad day indeed. And as poets and writers everywhere we need to speak up and say what needs to be said, and share those words with our nation and the world.
So here’s what we do.
At EXACTLY 8pm on the evening of Friday, January 20th I’m asking all my friends and fellow writers and poets to simultaneously all post a poem or prose piece against the election and presidency of Trump. Post it on Facebook, Twitter, Tumblr, WordPress …
That’s it, that’s all we need to do but we must all be united in this protest.
No matter who you are, what country, what race or what nationality this is the moment to Stand Against Trump.
All I ask?
Tag the bottom of your posts with these words that say we stand together.
The grim reaper must be lonely
Or perhaps God is, sending him
Fishing for musicians, poets & actors, jesters and the like.
Or maybe the reaper was just bored in a place where it’s always
Dark and never light.
So he decided to play a joke on us
And made our new leader the joke
Yes, this year the reaper has been quite busy lining up all his stops
Playing with the chessboard in the
Basement and taking the muse’s pawns
And has left us all to sink or swim
And find new ones to inspire
Generations to fight the dark as well
RelicsThe burning smell of leavesHe dreams ofHer body stretched outUpon the bed.SamhainCold October.She wears a maskDrunken fucking to the rhythmOf the danceLike a final sacrifice toThe Gods.SheShe is the GodA Goddess inBlack makeupThe spell runningThru us 7 times uponThe moonlit night’sFrozen earth, throneOf graveyard dustThese are the remainsOf what we once called loveEaten by the cannibalsDown to it’s witheredBones.
“Every day we slaughter our finest impulses. That is why we get a heartache when we read those lines written by the hand of a master and recognize them as our own, as the tender shoots which we stifled because we lacked the faith to believe in our own powers, our own criterion of truth and beauty. Every man, when he gets quiet, when he becomes desperately honest with himself, is capable of uttering profound truths. We all derive from the same source. There is no mystery about the origin of things. We are all part of creation, all kings, all poets, all musicians; we have only to open up, only to discover what is already there.”
“Not as we are but as we must appear,
contractual ghosts of pity; not as we
desire life, but as they would have us live,
set apart in timeless colloquy.
So it is required; so we bear witness,
despite ourselves, to what is beyond us,
each distant sphere of harmony forever
poised, unanswerable. It is without
consequence when we vaunt and suffer,
or if it is not, all echoes are the same
in such eternity. Then tell me, love,
how that should comfort us-or anyone
dragged half-unnerved out of this worldly place
crying to the end ”I have not finished.”
From ‘Funeral Music”
~ Geoffrey Hill, Collected Poems