So apparently this article has been moving around a bit in Facebook groups. The writer is not the first to coin the term ” Poetry is Dead” or for that matter the poetic viewpoint that T.S. Elliot was the game changer. What is your idealism or belief? This is not so much a critique as merely a viewpoint ( *please read first). To me, as a poet his viewpoint is interesting but what he has seriously forgotten is that Elliot wrote Wasteland in a drastically changed world only a few short years after WW1. Hence why the poem & title “The Wasteland”
I see Elliot’s poems as the new siren, the almost near dead, broken muse attempting to somehow comprehend a vast amount of death & destruction in a new world trying to recover 100 years ago. This was the very beginning of our times. A fearful world which now after 2 world wars and the fear of possible nuclear war which we were born into. The old world of our humanity & our full relationship to the natural world disappeared in the fire. The constant is again the word ” Fear” which we still live with in our subconscious every single day. So it is of little imagining as to why we are poets of politics & protest, dark, brooding rebellion and of end times. Eliot was just the first victim grappling with this destitute reaction to a nightmare made reality and its horrors.
Simply put? The event of World War, destruction & the death of thousands was merely a razorblade cutting into the poet’s soul and the realization that we would all never be whole or the same ever again.
My Quote Has Been Shared All Over Creation Since 1994 Because, Well, I’m A Coffee Addict
Damn. ( I’m laughing at the obvious)
And I mean this humorously but:
Generally I’m an open minded writer and I support new and upcoming writers but If I had single dollar for every time someone rippedoff my famous 1994 coffee quote I’d be a billionaire by now. I’ve seen it switched around, I’ve seen it turned into (gag)tea etc.boring, gross, lines stolen and thrown in without the smokes blah blah blah
Will someone please tell these idiots to create their own damn words and learn to write? I’m tired of seeing my words unravelled by dim-wits who think they’re being clever( See said inferior plagiarized quote below. No author on Google found or mentioned) Found this ” gem” on Facebook … Twice!
It’s going to be a great year of change, poetry, writing & events. My small press Dead Man’s Press Ink will be publishing new work by poets and hosting events such as our monthly poetry open mic INVOCATION OF THE MUSE POETRY OPEN MIC at Lark Hall here in Albany NY as well as a new non poetry event at the Fuzebox Nightclub called PROHIBITION 1923.
Twenty years ago I wrote a chapbook called Nod. 2003. These were some poems based on the experimental style of EE Cummings & George Oppen Many of the poems were published on now long gone poetry journal internet sites and as we know many online journals don’t last forever. Here are a few poems. Hope that you enjoy them.
~ R.M. Engelhardt
HEDROGLOSSIA
LOOK
If I can’t find the meaning well then at least I’ve found you And that being that is much more than ever being and much More than ever merely needing a touch, a voice, a word or a Feeling, something to be or not to …
SEE!
There I’ve done it again!
Hyper and not hedroglossia!
Too many words asking me to listen Too many voices only mine repeating Being two when I’m with you when this elusive thing they call time stands still and these days of our lives are suddenly & distinctly becoming entangled Moving much too fast for even Captain Zoom & his paisley rocket ship to fathom And sleeping beneath these quiet dreams of unspokeness And hearing all of these voices at once and yet, at times being so alone.
So I guess this is what they call hedroglossia, The wanting of a voice now gone, the hearing of a song The fear of not knowing possibly what belongs In these arms of poetry and dusk.
WRECK
(oh no Jock Cousteau, please help me salvage this heart.) because she who thinks she knows who thinks she knows knows nothing. says so long because his song has been sung. (and being a wreck, invisible) he sinks, drinks her false fear un-emotion and her ice cold seas into oblivion and sends out one last beacon for her in the night that she will never answer.
and lost at sea even she knows that he cannot comeback from the dead. for it was she who sunk the ship before it could even reach its destination
Crea en el amor y en yo¶ll siempre cree en usted
MEMENTO
Better to feel (Than be) Blood rushes thru veins And the heart beats, Only one-day to complete its duty While eventually earth and gods shall all come Crashing down And kingdoms & civilizations fade. And so please, I ask you only this; That when I leave to let me take these Few things with me; The moon, the sun and the stars, And the small traces of light which Once reflected in your eyes That I can no longer see
NOTES TO AN INSENSITIVE UNIVERSE
So what do you know about What is or is not to be? (Hmmm … perhaps it is we) Moving, living and struggling as if we think the very existence of the universe depends upon these things But the universe (dam dark void) Will be quite fine without us & our ³Feelings´
Poor universe And without love Sadder still for not Knowing what it wants Or what its here for
POEM TO PAST SELF IN FUTURE TENSE
Yours is a beauty of monstrous pro- Portions with the world Spinning randomly into Oblivion where the leaves are all Dying all of the time off of the trees, Where misery makes its way into every small tissue stealing.
Yours is a world where Beauty has fled and has left town For greener pastures, has drowned its- Self into the sea of angst & tears and Has mixed its-self with alcohol & Cigarettes, sad poems and Indiscriminate men & women who Already know that beauty has left The scene,
(And they no longer care to find her)
And yet it is good that beauty has Finally found you and that beauty is not Dead
But was only merely sleeping
On the sofa of your dreams
WHAT SHE SAID
She said;
³If you ever tell me that you love me I’m afraid that I’ll have to leave.´
So not wanting to ever lose her he bent down, got close and softly whispered in her ear;
³Lust … .Lust …Lust´
WAR FILM
Buddhist hope cow.com of love transcending the dialect of gloss & loss & gloom to the mysterious mysticism of the time machine
of ³when?´
Oh how I love thee, mammals of flesh and blood and candy. Let me count the innocent waves, the waves of psychotic emotion, measure my ass for caps and my heart for meaning less ³gestures.´
(And please; screen my phone calls for truths, religions, promises & AIDS.)
For selective in our service we the brave and the free will send out our hippie-bred children into the Man swarm and the cities of their destinies, their lives as Instantaneous as eighteen-year-old twinkies and our reasons as contrived as an
oily eagle ³fart´
Captain Zoom may send you to your doom as happy as a rectal thermometer but the smiling mortician man grim will dress you up in green who spills & spells out F R E E D O M
³Horizontally´
with a capital
D.
ALONE
Alone in a room with- Out you is alone, alone Without you is alone. Alone without you is like The moon without the stars, The world without the sun Shining upon it.
Good days or bad With you I’m never sad But without you in a Room I’m alone.
I KNOW
There are certain things I know don’t know, feel don’t feel & see don’t see.
I am a blind Man with the near And the far, I am a Baby bat that grasps And squeaks to all Things sad & mean all Past & future present past In the worship of your heart.
Sacred life of words Unspoken by man Knowing truth Is truth.
R.M. Engelhardt started sharing his poetry at local open mics in the early-90s and has since been a driving force in keeping the poetry and spoken word alive and well in the area. He has hosted a number of readings and events over the years and continues to welcome writers new and old to the stage.In this clip, Engelhardt reads “DeGeneration” at the Borders Open Mic on January 25, 1995. This poem was recorded for the CD, “Volume: A Compilation of Poets, Live”, produced by Mary Panza and Steve Clark chronicling the poetry scene at the time at such venues as the QE2, Margarita’s, and Borders.We talk about political poetry, what the arts community looks like in a post-pandemic world, and how he landed at Lark Hall for his monthly open mic.
“…The Outsider is doubly a rebel: a rebel against the Established Church, a rebel against the unestablished church of materialism. Yet for all this, he is the real spiritual heir of the prophets…The purest religion of any age lies in the hands of its spiritual rebels.
