R.M. ENGELHARDT

Poet Writer Author Albany NY

    • “The poet makes himself into a visionary by a long derangement of all the senses.”—Rimbaud

      In 1968 Jim Morrison, founder and lead singer of the rock band the Doors, wrote to Wallace Fowlie, a scholar of French literature and a professor at Duke University. Morrison thanked Fowlie for producing an English translation of the complete poems of Rimbaud. He needed the translation, he said, because, “I don’t read French that easily… . I am a rock singer and your book travels around with me.” Fourteen years later, when Fowlie first heard the music of the Doors, he recognized the influence of Rimbaud in Morrison’s lyrics.
      In Rimbaud and Jim Morrison Fowlie, a master of the form of the memoir, reconstructs the lives of the two youthful poets from a personal perspective. In their twinned stories he discovers an uncanny symmetry, a pattern far richer than the simple truth that both led lives full of adventure and both made poetry of their thirst for the liberation of the self. The result is an engaging account of the connections between an exceptional French symbolist who gave up writing poetry at the age of twenty, died young, and whose poems are still avidly read to this day, and an American rock musician whose brief career ignited an entire generation and has continued to fascinate millions around the world in the twenty years since his death in Paris. In this dual portrait, Fowlie gives us a glimpse of the affinities and resemblances between European literary traditions and American rock music and youth culture in the late twentieth century.
      A personal meditation on two unusual, yet emblematic, cultural figures, this book also stands as a summary of a noted scholar’s lifelong reflections on creative artists.

      About The Author:

      At the time of his death, Wallace Fowlie was James B. Duke Professor Emeritus of French Literature at Duke University. He is the author and translator of thirty books, includingRimbaud: A Critical Study and The Complete Works of Rimbaud, a translation. This is the fifth volume in a series of memoirs, Memory, Sites, Aubade, and Journal of Rehearsals,all published by Duke University Press.

    Source : (www.rmengelhardt.com)

  • Selling Out The Gods By R.M. Engelhardt

    SELLING OUT THE GODS

    Lizard King lunchboxes for

    Precocious children are coming soon

    To a supermarket near you.

    They will be next to the Jim Carroll 

    Action figures and the “Rimbaud was 

    a wildman” T-Shirts in isle 5.

    The Jack Kerouac cereal is fortified 

    And delicious …

    _________________

    R.M. Engelhardt 2005

  • NOD Moon Stars Sun Time Poems By R.M. Engelhardt 2002



    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.




    _________________


    POEM TO PAST SELF IN FUTURE TENSE

    Yours is a beauty of monsterous

    proportions with the world 

    Spinning randomly into 

    Oblivion where all the leaves are all

    Dying all the time off 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 beautyhas

    Finally found you and that beauty is not dead,

    But was merely sleeping

    On the sofa of your

    Dreams.




    ______________

    Poems By R.M. Engelhardt

    From The Book “Nod. (moon, stars, sun … time)

    2oo2



  • Arm yourself with pens and imagination, the paper is the empty space between the silence and the void. Fill it with words and ideas of grand thoughts and designs, unseen moments glimpsed out of secret corners. ~ R.M.

  • A life in Writing

    ‘Let’s have a look at the dark side of the moon – Marlowe as spy, Rimbaud as gun-runner, Shakespeare as lodger’

    http://www.guardian.co.uk/culture/2011/dec/30/life-in-writing-charles-nicholl

    A life in writing: Charles Nicholl

  • The Archeology Of Her Smile Poem

    ” I love you “

    These words that he said

    A thousand lifetimes ago.

    A thousand women weeping

    A thousand flowers burned.

    The poem,

    Just written for someone, somewhere

    Once.

    Beloved

    A wife

    A daughter

    A love.

    About the archeology of her smile,

    About her hidden voice,

    The joyful noise of her child

    Or just the way she laughed,

    Poised, in the mirror

    Or running thru the grass

    Or thru the fields

    Of forever.

    For these words

    Were said, were written

     A thousand lifetimes ago,

    A thousand women weeping

    A thousand flowers burned.

    The poem,

    Just written for someone, somewhere

    Once.

    About the archeology of her smile,

    About the way she loved

    About the life she lived with you

    About the world she touched

    For this is her true story

    Written in the voices of each life.

    Civilization, man or woman

    And of their rise or fall.

    For without her or her

    Beauty, her eyes, or her smile?

    Why there would be

    No “his-story” ever written

    At all.

    ________________________

    R.M. Engelhardt 2012

  • All men should possess a ‘visionary faculty’. Men do not, because they live wrongly. They live too tensely, under too much strain, ‘getting and spending’. But this loss of the visionary faculty is not entirely man’s fault, it is partly the fault of the world he lives in, that demands that men should spend a certain amount of their time ‘getting and spending’ to stay alive. …The visionary faculty comes naturally to all men. When they are relaxed enough, every leaf of every tree in the world, every speck of dust, is a separate world capable of producing infinite pleasure. If these fail to do so, it is man’s own fault for wasting his time and energy on trivialities. The ideal is the contemplative poet, the ‘sage’, who cares about having only enough money and food to keep him alive, and never takes thought for the morrow.”

    ~  From The Outsider by Colin Wilson

  •  

    THE SOUL PARADE

    Y’know.

    This poem, ain’t about you.

    And this poem ain’t about a raging heart
    Or a saving grace.

    This poem has nothing to do with the blues,
    Robert Johnson, the devil or even
    All the saints.

    And this poem has nothing to do with the paranormal,
    Demons or the neon electric lights of
    Near death, deadly dead cosmic experiences,
    Jesus Christ or his brother
    Fred, candy, the shadow government,
    The FBI, CIA

    Or “You”

    No.

    This poem is a song
    This poem is not a song

    This poem
    Is a riddle
    This Poem is a revelation
    For the false.

    That has nothing to do with you,
    Or your limited level of reality, non reality,
    War, baseball or boxing, peace summits
    Criticism Or the never ending war of

    Good … Versus Evil.

    That you are truly, afraid to fight.

    No. Nope.

    This poem ain’t about you,
    not about you at all.

    Because this here poem
    Is all about “Soul”

    An extinct & isolated species that’s
    Connected, Interconnected & Intertwined
    And Living Complete & Inside and Amongst the Cosmology
    Of a Hundred Thousand Billion Stars.

    And something that “You” Will Never Get,
    Or ever understand.

    Because this poem
    Is not all about “You”

    This poem
    Is about “Soul”

    That thing that you can never have
    Or get which just like imagination
    Escapes you just like honesty
    Fame or the verses

    That fall onto the page, like love.

    Because you see it’s
    That song inside your deepest depths
    The heart that keeps you going, fighting

    And truly “Alive”

    Each & everyday

    And that something
    Which you must earn.

    So this poem
    Sure as hell
    Ain’t about “You”

    This poem
    Is all about the parade of souls

    That just keeps on passing you by
    Without notice.

    All the souls

    Smart enough,

    Not to follow

    “You”

    ____________________


    R.M. Engelhardt

  • I Was Once Dead Too  R.M. Engelhardt

    I WAS ONCE DEAD TOO

    In a famous painting
    of Christ nailed to
    and crucified upon the cross
    I am the watching 
    leper on the right.
    And with my one good eye
    I watch as Jesus dies
    and screams up into
    darkening sky asking
    his father for a reason

    why?

    And then, suddenly 
    as the clouds open up
    and the rain begins
    the Romans scatter like mice,
    the water, burning off their
    flesh like corrosive acid.
    As I feel the wetness upon my
    skin like the warmth of a beautiful woman 
    touching my face, I raise my
    hands outward, and I am healed.
    When a voice comes
    which tells me I am now
    the angel of death, and the
    watcher in the eternity
    that is time, wandering 
    the earth.

    The screams of both Jesus,
    and his murderers the Romans
    now a distant sound & memory
    in a world without messiahs
    or miracles to amaze us.
    Only questions
    which remain unanswered.

    THE DEAD WEIGHT OF HUMANITY

    You reach inside

    Your guts and you

    Pull out

    A fuzzy bunny.

    You reach inside

    You’re soul and worse

    Yet you pull out

    A teletubbie.

    The image

    In your mind appears,

    the voices speak.

    You’re probably insane.

    And you wonder;

    Has this ever happened

    To Whitman? Dickinson

    Or Frost?

    Probably not.

    But then again,

    They didn’t have

    Drugs

    As good

    As ours.

    More …   

    http://www.retort.brentley.com/RETORT/06/id_01.06_rm_engelhardt.htm

    Literature  R.M. Engelhardt


    Poems In Retort Magazine