The Aesthetics Of Anger… Poem

The Aesthetics Of Anger

When said the moon to the stars in the sky
A small boy was born upon the day his mother died
Upon his 30th day did also rise
An only son in September.

And when he was young and death did follow
Him like a bird and left him hollow
At five & twelve & 13 lives
A trail of tears & unspoken goodbyes
That made him all like quiet

And dead to him-self, inside.

The solitary boy who learned to read big books
Who found all the poets, verses & hooks
And who lived in a mind of his own.

And the boy got in trouble, the boy he got in fights
Stood up for the weak ones
And blackened bullies eyes, broke their noses
And bloodied their tries at being the toughest kid
And he never, lost a fight.

But it was’nt out of cause that the boy became bad
And it was’nt cause he had ever had
A reason to ever hurt anyone else
At all.

It was just all because of the matter, and
The Aesthetics Of Anger

And the will to hurt all
Those who hurt others, and deserved it as well,
To kill, hurt and keep the inevitable its self,
The oncoming years from coming
To destroy that which one cannot see
Something that comes to both you & me unceasing.

Stealing his love, and stealing his friends
One day, at a time.

And many years passed
And many things changed
Many lives left
And many hearts came
And softly entered into
The procession of his life

And the boy, now a man finally
Figured out what he was
And was finally meant to be,

Not a doctor or a wraith
Or a quiet man of hate, the shaman or a slave to all those
Who want power over the masses or to be the best

For he was only born to be
hardcore troubadour, a poet
And a man of words incarnate
Using his voice, and words as weapons
To fight & to defeat
All those who would try to
Kill the spirit that dwells within

With versus
And sarcasm
Truth & history
New images & myths

And that’s why he was born.

To be the hand up Mona Lisa’s dress,
To be the heart within your chest
The voice that beats and holds you close
And says the things you want the most
That you can’t say yourself.

To become the dark
And become the light
Tween’ both worlds
He’s traveled this night
And wrote & brought back
Something that
Another never could

For you see? It’s not his fault,

For it was just all because of the matter, and
The Aesthetics Of Anger

That you & the forces that be
Created themselves

The words, now his weapons

And the boy has been beaten, bloodied,
Stabbed &
Knocked down

But has never lost a fight yet,

And never “Will”

The Aesthetics Of Anger... Poem

____________

R.M. Engelhardt  2011

The Rain Poets

The Rain Poets

THE RAIN POETS

It seems that all the rain poets

Are weeping again tonight,

In words, that rain down

In buckets.

The living, once more pretending

To be the dead, the waiting and

Wanting of it, just above their heads

Like false prophets.

The art of

Voices & rants

As all of the dark clouds gather

And they ask, demand

Why ME?

Why US?

Why?

Why?

Why?

As their world is ending once again

As their world is in pain in the

Black black black abyss of the DARK DARK NIGHT

of Apocalypse again and again

And of themselves.

In a world that is a mess

In a world that suffers war

And in a world that is slowly dying, starving and well

“What-ever”

As they read their poetry brought to life by an attitude

That attempts living where shock value incurs some glimmer of truth at all.

Because?

The rain poets are not reading a

poem or writing a poem about that,

The rain poets are too busy writing

What their own selfish little lives are all about,

The whining & the bitching and the

ME ME ME LOOK AT ME I’m angry

Or I’m FAT, life is so unfair & no one wants to

Have sex & I can’t find the right pair of pants

That fit!

Yes, the rain poets are all weeping again

Up unto the masses & unto the general consensus,

Rhyme it : And keep the tragic flowing,

Slam It : And shock again whats been shocked so many times before

Oh ever so popular (as usual)

Oh, ever so the same old song

And oh ever so amusing

So all about an attitude and

All their poems that never change

Never … Change At All.

Or even acknowledge

That somewhere out there

In a real world where there are

No poetry slams or malls that there is

A desolate place where a child is dying alone of starvation,

That somewhere out there

In the real world there is a killer

Who really kills people with guns & without words

And who doesn’t give two shits about your attitude or your poetry

Or your wonderful comfortable happy thoughts ideas about

Peace or what’s right & wrong with your life, your relationships

Or what you had for dinner as he kills another person, another human being

For as little as

A thrill.

Yes, tonight as in every night somewhere

The rain poets are performing & whining once again about

The “I” & the “My” & the “Me” & “Why” & Are The

Who who are saying that I AM THE SHIT

When in the real world, and not in their own egotistical minds

Their convictions and words  are merely artificial

False anger, false masks & false words

That hide the real fear of the real world that they

fear the most.

But some advice?

You cannot save the world with a poem

But it is far better to try than to not try at all

And if those words are your only weapons?

Make them “REAL”

_________________

R.M. Engelhardt 2011

COLTRANE’S AGENT

God.

Is that genius that
Wails through time like a
Saxophone cutting thru
The darkness of the night.
Possibly for you
Just as the rain

“Begins”

____________

R.M. Engelhardt 1994

Now On SmashWords…

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R.M. Engelhardt...Poet

Now On SmashWords…

Ruthless Gravity

Ruthless Gravity

Sound Wisdom ...
S

Tonight on television
there is an actor talking about his battle with
drug addiction, sex addiction and life.

You would think that by the way
the host is interviewing him
that he is wise & worldly, an
ancient sage from his
battle with the curse

of “celebrity”

And there are a billion lights
in the great big city, a million lives
that get up everyday and go to work like
everybody else. And their addiction is food,
their addiction is rent and how to somehow
get thru the next day and make sure that
their children are dressed, educated & well-fed.

So the question is is that when you
look at the world do you see a gift? Or do you see an
enemy? Do you have faith or do you pretend that
all of these famous people are like you or your friends?

The constant partying,
the good life, broads & booze,
high fashion, money and
Paris Hilton bending over your
patio bench just waiting for
a piece of what you’ve got to give.

But there are those of us who
happen to live in the real world,
those who believe in more than just
the shallow trash that all the others
seem to admire.

And they call us the survivors who don’t
need the shit or the television to fulfill our
needs. The survivors who don’t need the
drama or the fake religions of the moment,
the meth or the cocaine, a little dog or
a brand new $400. dollar purse.

~ R.M. Engelhardt

THE SAINT POEM READING SERIES
AN OPEN MIC FOR POETS, POETRY & THE SPOKEN WORD
MONDAY, MAY 16th At The UAG:

Featured Poet : STEVEN MINCHIN

7:30pm Sign Up * 8pm Start
$4.00 Donation Requested

THE SAINT POEM READING SERIES
AT THE UPSTATE ARTISTS GUILD
Held Every 3rd Monday Of Each Month
Hosted By R.M. Engelhardt

_________________

Poetry…Poets & Experimental Writing. Featured Poets & Their Work As Well As Themes. These Are The Things That Have Made Poetry Open Mics Interesting Over The Years & 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…And Most Importantly, The Words!
Sponsored By The UAG & MythicAlbany-AlbanyAtNight & Hosted By Veteran Albany Poet R.M. Engelhardt

www.rmengelhardtpoet.com

Two Poems More Than – Evening

MORE THAN …


Evening...

More than just this;

A hand, a halo, a tryst,

Swallowed up in imagery

Synergy … the electricity

Of a single.. simple …. ‘Word’.

Phrases given by divine intervention,

Ecstasy or the need for flight,

From God or Buddha, Mohammad

Or the night.

More than just this;

Your love, your voice exists.

Re-invents astrology resists where history, temptation has been,

Genesis, or the temporal servants of the momentary rhyme,

Or a monumental pause … of the mind.

More than just this;

Poetry must be

Can be

Much more than just a drunk

Or a mere critic, a contagious madman

A martyr, a saint, your youth, your death, or your age.

This crime of sincerity

More than just an eternity

‘Forgotten’

R.M. Engelhardt

___________________________

EVENING

Evening…

You kill me.

Slow pulse, slow your image still burning

Still.

Ouiet,

As all these voices come out

Into the dark, at night.

My love, my sadness… ‘Night’

You, more than just another dance

With the moon.


R.M. Engelhardt

Masks

mask

M A S K S

Our true identity is often hidden behind the masks we wear.

Masks contain complete social schemas. Others look at the mask and understand what it represents and know what mask to wear themselves. Like a formal ball, the masks thus dance with one another with our selves safely concealed beneath.

Masks thus protect the person and facilitate interaction with others. I wear a mask in different situations to be the person I want to be there.

Masks may be provided by others who interpellate people into subject and cultural roles.

Masks provide a position of safety as we hide our anxieties behind masks of power and security.

We wear layers of masks, such that if one is removed, the true self is not found beneath, but just another mask…