R.M. ENGELHARDT

Poet Writer Author Albany NY

Category: R.M. ENGELHARDT, THE RESURRECTION WALTZ

R.M. ENGELHARDT, THE RESURRECTION WALTZ WEBSITE www.rmengelhardt.com

  • New video of me reading the poem “Silence Falls” from my new book “The Resurrection Waltz” at The Book House in Albany, NY. A special thanks goes out to my friends Murrow (Thom Francis/Keith Spencer) & Albany Poets for helping to create such a great night of friends & poetry. ~ R.M. An Interview With…

  •       Stranger stop and wish me well, Just say a prayer for my soul in hell. I was a good fellow, most people said Betrayed by a woman dressed in all red.   ~ Unknown, Famous Alleyway Poem Found Next To   Where John Dillinger Was Shot & Killed.  

  • Poet R.M. Engelhardt finds hope in words Engelhardt expresses hope in power of language By Amy Biancolli Published 2:11 pm, Wednesday, March 13, 2013   The poems of R.M. Engelhardt don’t assert faith in much. Not religion. Not a society that ignores the plight of the downtrodden while glorifying the rich. As he writes in…

  • “Life impairs the expression of life. If I were to live a great love, I would never be able to describe it. I myself do not know if this I that I reveal to you in these serpentine pages really exists or if it is only an aesthetic, false conceit that I made of myself.…

  • JACK KEROUAC 12 march 1922 – 21 october 1969 A poet is a fellow who spends his time thinking about what it is that’s wrong, and although he knows he can never quite find out what this wrong is, he goes right on thinking it out and writing it down. A poet is a blind…

  • http://www.theliteraryrogue.com

  •     Time is the substance from which I am made. Time is a river which carries me along, but I am the river; it is a tiger that devours me, but I am the tiger; it is a fire that consumes me, but I am the fire.” ~  Jorge Luis Borges

  • Coming into being By R.M. Engelhardt Midnight. Domestic violence and hip hop shaking the windows free of sleep. Disturbed creatures laughing & singing in the hallways with the echoes of drunken stupidity. Jack’s old angels don’t come here anymore, barren of all love and jazz, exulting no happiness or joy but only decay. City televisions…

  • It has often happened to me, at book fairs or in bookstores, that a gentleman approaches me and asks me for a signature. “It is for my wife, my young daughter, or my mother,” he explains. “She is a great reader and loves literature.” Immediately I ask: “And what about you? Don’t you like to…