DARK LANDS BOOK Reviews R.M. Engelhardt

cropped-img_20190807_222601_443.jpgvia DARK LANDS

 

Telegraphic missives from the bleak future of now taking in spirit machine and blood . A faint hope beyond hopelessness still guiding the words .

~ Steve Kilbey (The Church)

****

R.M. Engelhardt is one of the finest poets currently drawing breath and this book is one hell of a ride. I’ve lost track of whether or not there is any such thing as “truth” left in the world, but these poems convey another quality almost as rare: genuine honesty about things that matter. Dark, rich, nuanced, emotionally risky, and crafted by an artist of the first rank, Darklands is a collection to keep you reading and rereading, and thinking long after. Highly recommended.

~  Jeff Weddle 

******

As always R.M. provides us with powerful and succinct snapshots of our world. He has taken the path of the “Shaman”, assimilating the cultural’raw material’ and through his unigue lens trans-substantiated, the dross into lessons and observations that we are now, all the better, for hearing. Cheers to  the Outsider Gentleman!

~ Hex’m J’ai

*****

 

Rise Above & Transcend :

Get Your Copy of DarkLands Today:

http://www.lulu.com/shop/rm-engelhardt/darklands-poems/paperback/product-24216297.html?fbclid=IwAR2q5W4t42jVezfMl-JMqBV8j6L6vD2v65OI9V8d3YF-CwRpc3oXMtpGDbU

Judge not, that ye be not judged

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“Judge not, that ye be not judged.”
Matthew 7:1

One of the most insidious ways the ego strengthens itself is in criticizing others. Whether it be their appearance, their beliefs, their politics, or any other criticism we level at others – whether out loud or just in our own minds – what we are truly doing is giving ourselves a reason to feel superior. We are getting a little burst of pleasure from seeing ourselves as superior in some way to person we are criticizing. It could be intellectual superiority, moral superiority, spiritual superiority, financial superiority, or superior in some other way. It all comes down to the same thing….our ego congratulating itself on being better, greater than, or more than someone else’s ego. This sense of superiority is what allows us to create a greater sense of boundary between “me” and “not me.” The ego grows more dense through the practice of showing where others are wrong, and it is right.
Part of the Great Work is understanding the mechanics of ego and mind, so that we are no longer ruled by them.

~ Damien Echols
#highmagick
#ceremonialmagick
#magick
#damienechols
#NYC

 

Our Battle …

For our battle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world and against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms…

Misfit

The World

You are an

Angel with a

Martyr’s crown.

Eyes cast

Downward upon

The ground

“Destruct”

Fear.

The long loud lines

Of industry, traffic, commerce

Every moment alive to die

Held tight by the within

Where you gasp take hands

Take heart take shelter from

The world.

This world;

Aware & so full of

Mad men & mad women, demons

A society hanging on NOW

On high on volume on 10 on

Now NOW NOW NOW

NOW

Not today

Not tomorrow

Become one of them

Fit in

Belong

Make do.

Don’t think

Don’t disagree

And forget

All the things that

They say “Don’t Matter”

Like literature

And your poetry

Your books & you’re feelings

And the journal that is you.

For you child

Are only an angel

With a martyr’s crown

Angel

Just another misfit

A ne’er-do-wel

But do not

Do not ever

Let them

Take away who you are

For that is the gift

That can never be

Replaced.

______________

R.M. Engelhardt 2011

Unsung Poets…

ARAGON

There exists a black kingdom which the eyes of man avoid because its landscape fails signally to flatter them. This darkness, which he imagines he can dispense with in describing the light, is error with its unknown characteristics. Error i…s certainty’s constant companion. Error is the corollary of evidence. And anything said about truth may equally well be said about error: the delusion will be no greater.~ Louis Aragon

__________________________
Louis Aragon

(born Oct. 3, 1897, Paris, Fr. — died Dec. 24, 1982, Paris) French poet, novelist, and essayist. He was introduced by André Breton into avant-garde circles, and the two cofounded the Surrealist review Littérature in 1919. From 1927 he was increasingly a political activist and spokesman for communism, which resulted in a break with the Surrealists. Among his works are the novel tetralogy Le Monde réel, 4 vol. (1933 – 44), describing the class struggle of the proletariat; the huge novel Les Communistes, 6 vol. (1949 – 51); novels of veiled autobiography; and volumes of poems expressing patriotism and love for his wife. He was editor of the communist weekly of arts and literature, Les Lettres françaises, 1953 – 72.

______________________

L’amoureuse
Elle est debout sur mes paupièresEt ses cheveux sont dans les miens,Elle a la forme de mes mains,Elle a la couleur de mes yeux,Elle s’engloutit dans mon ombreComme une pierre sur le ciel.Elle a toujours les yeux ouvertsEt ne me laisse pas dormir.Ses rêves en pleine lumièreFont s’évaporer les soleils,Me font rire, pleurer et rire, Parler sans avoir rien à dire 

In English:
The Beloved
She is standing on my eyelidsAnd her hair is wound in mine,She has the form of my hands,She has the colour of my eyes,She is swallowed by my shadowLike a stone against the sky.Her eyes are always openAnd will not let me sleep.Her dreams in broad daylightMake the suns evaporateMake me laugh, cry and laugh, Speak with nothing to say.

The German Baroness Else Baroness von Freytag-Loringhoven’s Poetry

Astride

Poem
Saddling
Up
From
Fir
Nightbrimmed ⎯
Clinkstirrupchink!
Silverbugle
Copperrimmed ⎯
Keening ⎯
Heathbound
Roves
Moon
Pink ⎯
Straddling
Neighing
Stallion :
“HUEESSUEESSUEESSSOOO
HYEEEEEE PRUSH
HEE HEE HEEEEEEAAA
OCHKZPNJRPRRRR
            HÜ
           /    
HÜÜ            HÜÜÜÜÜÜ
        HÜ-HÜ!”
Aflush
Brink
Through
Foggy
Bog
They
Slink ⎯
Sink
Into
Throbb
Bated.
Hush
Falls ⎯
Stiffling ⎯
Shill
Crickets
Shrill ⎯
Bullfrog
Squalls
Inflated
Bark
Riding
Moon’s
Mica –
Groin ⎯
Strident!

Hark!

Stallion
Whinny’s
In
Thickets.

EvFL

Aphrodite to Mars
(read the original manuscript in the Baroness archives)

Flashing blade –
Poniard buried –
High
Flexible tenderness web
Abdominal
Of
Systems
Equal steel
Shaped
Female

Aflirt
Mars’
Buried blade’s
Keenness aggressive
Into
Keenness’ receptive
Aristocratic
Fit.

Octopus charm’s
Alluring
Rubberdisk tenacity –
Sucking
Soft – energetic
Into
Systems mobile
Knit
Ceasar’s
Digging
Point
Sharp kiss
Plenishing
Snapping thirst’s
Drill gash
Rimflush
Ruby blood’s desire
Equal
Of
Quality true –
Gushing –
Ejaculating silently
High
To
Stain glintedges chased
Pained tempered
Flirt
Ceasar’s crimson
Supreme
Cardinal
Sheath
In
Hedges
Of
Pride’s beam –
Brave blade’s
Flash point –
Poniard steel
Mars asleep
At
Hearth
Olympic.

Octopus love pillows
Recuperating
Capacity
Suckdisks clinglust
To
Sharp arm
Within
Ecstatic
Elasticity
Feminine

Increases!

Tournament dale –
Mattress
Of
Supremely laurelled
Victor

Maturesmiled –
Rosestrewn –
Gaping –
Openpetalled –
Abandonflushed –
Deep – satiated – red
By:
Virtue’s daring
Brilliancy –
Adorned

EvFL

Hell’s Wisdom
(read the original manuscript in the Baroness archives)

<All wisdom is profoundly trivial>
Love is gravitation

My “Derangement” dwells in absence – as – under circumstances existing – normally – it
should be present.
It maintains in circumstance –
There I leave it.
My being in senses right is normal height.
It being uncommon – presents strange – as genius does – uncompanioned.
Victim of circumstance I am not – as I am no dweller in
For me – to be touched – touchably – by circumstance – normal
To vacuous spectres of substance past – should so be abnormal – as to cause revulsion
degree –
Provoking instant insanity – whence I am protected by radius of spiritual emanation

To circumstance I am immaterial – as is circumstance to me.
Diametricaly opposed – alone we leave each other – charmed aloft
Lone I – enhanced shrouded earth – by own atmosphere mine self’s own self – out-of
circumstance cosmic star – volve revolve – evolve -I do – by starshaped pride stygmatized
outcast from circumstanced press – presssure – I am.

Social insanity – cosmic sanity – visible flesh – I am not present.
Cosmic resident .
That means :
Responsibility sublime
Capacity to measure.
Bliss – damnation – alternating until equilibrium attainment
Sway
Balance
Scalefix.

Solution perfect of two in one.
2: 1.
Two in one is nil.
2 : 1 = .
Urstate sublimatedly
Lifted sublime by blood sacrificial power flux :
Radiance suffusion.
Light equals light:
Motion – rise
Impulse. Motion –
Top sun – it
             
Scalefix.

Matter at ever higher level put
Until cristal state –
Graded circle:
                                
One and all is circle
      1 + =
All in one is nil.
: 1 =
Nil is allsum
=
Allsum is in nil
= :
Life conquered – emotion solved
Measureless limitless urfigure
Assembled.
Circle
Navel
Nil.

           Betwixt :
           Swing –
           Wheel
           Scale
           Until:
           Shot
           Middle
           Spot
           Hit - :
           Radiance
           Adash.

EvFL

The German Baroness Else Baroness von Freytag-Loringhoven’s Poetry

WALT WHITMAN IS DEAD

WALT WHITMAN IS DEAD By R.M. Engelhardt

WALT WHITMAN IS DEAD

Where are you now?

Uncle?

Poet?

Walt?

Old man, child of the Long Island

Free verse son of America,

Teacher & government work-man?

“Human – Being”

Citizen

Man… Mind of the spirit

Spirit, in the flesh

Where have you gone?

Disappeared

Now a ghost

Among the leaves,

The rest.

Uncle,

I see your name written in

School books and upon the wind

And within the rain,

And I still hear your songs fill the air

In the forests & the city streets

Body … Electric.

But father?

Uncle?

Where are you now?

Where have you been?

Gone, gone away from

What you loved most, the land

Yet buried beneath the green

Green meadows, valleys & time

Of ages.

Meditating within the oldest of trees

Silent thru out new ages.

For a book is merely paper

But a voice must ask or say

Invoke yea and awaken others from

The vast darkness & the gray

For uncle, poetic father,

Your America has sadly changed.

No longer the free land

Of promise, no longer do we

Dream like you once dreamt

We still fight wars and without hope

Falter & lose ourselves,

Souls within the damned dark & dense.

So uncle, father.

Return and sit here for a while

And bring some comfort the dying of poets, poetry &

The young boys, and now women…soldiers,

Decimated in faraway lands

You never mentioned in your poems

Or ever heard of.

For it rumored

That you are dead.

And yet?

The 21st century & centuries to come

May yet remember thee still,

And write your verse upon some wall in yet

Another revolution coming.

For it is the same world that

Faces us today Walt Whitman,

One of a new slavery & lack of, death of spirit

That you would not begin to comprehend

Where the poor are now

The slaves of corporation & debt

And prejudice

Still runs rampant…yet hidden

Behind best intentions.

So would you,

Father, Uncle Walt

Still stand insolent? Defiant?

Would you, Walt Whitman

Still stand up & among the

Working class?

But alas,

It is no longer your time here

But your heart & soul remain,

For we, the poets who still struggle

Must create our own new voices & names,

Speak, of what is now & not of the past

To audiences not of one land, but many.

So, Uncle? I owe you an apology.

For you, Walt Whitman are dead.

A timeless friend

And a memory

That we must let rest

To create a new vision.

That one day brings your spirit,

Your uncorrupted vision

“Back”

For if we miss you in one place?

We shall search for you

In another.

__________________

R.M. ENGELHARDT 2011


UnSung Poets: Maxwell Bodenheim

Maxwell Bodenheim


Maxwell Bodenheim

Birth: May 26, 1892 
Death: Feb. 6, 1954 


Blind

 

 

Blinder than oak-trees in the wind
Endlessly weaving sighs into a poem
To sight,
He sits, the light of one pale purple lantern
Seeping into his dream-hollowed face,
Like floating, transparent words
Pale with unuttered meanings.
He mends a flute and sighs as though
Its shadow leaned heavily upon his heart
And told him things his dead eyes could not grasp.

To One Dead

 

I walked upon a hill
And the wind, made solemnly drunk with your presence,
Reeled against me.
I stooped to question a flower,
And you floated between my fingers and the petals,
Tying them together.
I severed a leaf from its tree
And a water-drop in the green flagon
Cupped a hunted bit of your smile.
All things about me were steeped in your remembrance
And shivering as they tried to tell me of it

Novelist and Poet. Once considered a leading modernist author of the early 20th Century, he is credited with introducing the spirit of French Naturalism into American Literature. His novel “Replenishing Jessica” (1925), a brutally frank tale about a young woman’s sexual liberation among seedy bohemians, was the subject of a famous obscenity trial that helped loosen censorship restrictions in the United States. When the court ruled in Bodenheim’s favor, New York City Mayor Jimmy Walker concurred with the quip, “No girl has ever been seduced by a book.” Bodenheim was born in Hermanville, Mississippi, and moved to Chicago with his family in 1900. There he became the center of a literary clique that included his good friend (and later enemy) Ben Hecht. His first book of poetry, “Minna and Myself” (1918), was praised by Carl Sandburg, William Carlos Williams, and Conrad Aiken. In 1920 Bodenheim settled in Greenwich Village, New York, and lived there the rest of his life. During the Jazz Age he was called America’s “King of the Literary Bohemians” and was notorious for his drinking, feuding, and womanizing. He was said to have resembled a young Kirk Douglas or Pat Riley, and women apparently found him irresistible. In one frenetic year, 1928, two women killed themselves after he dumped them, and two more attempted suicide. (A fifth ex-girlfriend died in a subway crash, her pockets stuffed with Bodenheim’s love letters). Despite all this dissipation he was a fairly prolific writer, producing 13 novels, 10 volumes of poems, and the memoir “My Life and Loves in Greenwich Village” (1950). His other works include the poetry collections “Introducing Irony” (1922), “The Sardonic Arm” (1923), and “Against This Age” (1925), and the novels “Blackguard” (1923), “Naked on Roller Skates” (1930), and “New York Madness” (1933). Bodenheim’s reputation declined after the Great Depression and by the early 1950s he was a homeless derelict, selling poems for drinks and panhandling. During the freezing New York winters he made his much younger third wife, alcoholic former journalist Ruth Fagin, prostitute herself in exchange for shelter. This activity cost both their lives. On February 7, 1954, the couple were found murdered in a dingy, heatless room; Bodenheim had been shot twice, Fagin stabbed to death. The confessed killer, Harold Weinburg, was judged incompetent to stand trial and served six years in a mental institution. The crime made Bodenheim news one last time, after which he receded from history. Today his books are out of print and he is unjustly remembered only for his dissolute life and lurid demise. (bio by: Robert Edwards)

Burial:
Cedar Park Cemetery
Emerson
Bergen County
New Jersey, USA

The 2011 Albany Wordfest~National Poetry Month

2011 AlbanyWordfest

In celebration of National Poetry Month, Albany Poets is proud to

present the 2011 Albany Word Fest featuring the poetry,

spoken word, and music of upstate New York.  This year’s event will

take place on Saturday, April 16, 2011 at The Linda

(339 Central Ave., Albany).

This year’s event is the 10th anniversary of the Albany Word Fest and with

that in mind, Albany Poets is promising big things.

Thom Francis, Albany Poets President, says, “When we started

this event ten years ago on a Saturday afternoon in Thatcher Park,

we never thought it would become one of the biggest ‘mark-your-

calendar’ events of each and every year. We are very proud of

how we have been able to continue hosting one of the biggest

poetry open mics in upstate New York for ten years.”

The 2011 Albany Word Fest will kick-off with the 12-Hour Open

Mic at 7:00AM at The Linda. Albany Poets Vice President

Mary Panza says, “After the success of the last two 12-hour open

mics, we have decided to do it again, but this time, during the day.

This will give poets a better opportunity to share their work and

also give the audience more time to appreciate the talent in the

poetry and spoken word community.”  This open mic for poetry and

spoken word will be held from 7:00AM – 7:00PM.

Poets who wish to participate in the open mic can sign up online

by going to the Albany Word Fest website, www.albanywordfest.com

until 5:00pm on Friday, April 15.  Performers will also have a limited

opportunity to sign up at the event itself.  Each poet will have 10 -15

minutes to share their work. The open mic is open to all poets and

spoken word artists with no style or content restrictions. 

After the Open Mic, starting at 7:00PM, the 2011 Albany Word Fest

brings the annual Psycho Cluster F*#k to the The

Linda featuring poetry, music and spoken word from upstate New

York artists David Fey, Olivia Quillio, Avery, Daniel Nester,

Poetyc Vyzyonz, Mother Judge’s Open Mic Showcase, Metroland’s

Best Poets of 2011: Mary Panza, R.M. Engelhardt, and KC Orcutt,

and much more.

Admission for this event is $10.00. Tickets will be available for purchase on

The Linda’s website and at the door on the day of the event. This event is

open to all ages ( 21+ with a picture ID required to drink). 

The 2011 Albany Word Fest is sponsored by Albany Poets, McGeary’s,

The Linda, and the very generous donations of supporters of the arts

in upstate New York.

The 2011 Albany Wordfest~National Poetry Month

A 21st Century Dirge For America

A TWENTY-FIRST CENTURY 

DIRGE FOR AMERICA
"Don't Tread On Me"


Another dead song for a dead man

A dead art in no man’s land.

“CENSORED”


For Being REAL
As they stop the world,
Judge and destroyall that which theycannot make
Or see.   

FOR WE THE PEOPLE BELIEVE IN


Anarchy Archery Douche-Beggary38 Flavors & Fifty Stars Officially
And nothing more.
For to say the least  it’s yourApathy Banality AbsolutelyAn Analogy, Abruptly. America SoBlow MeFrom Sea to Shining Sea &Lovingly Bitterly Swallow Me

In Poverty


“Amen”


Or ? You can Literally Be, Continue In The Middle OrSee-Dream OfVespucci, Liberty With SymmetrySynchronicity or Being

True.


So Are We Truly  Free? 
Re-discovered or The Undiscovered CountryLand Of The BraveThat Has Never Truly Ever Seen


DEATH.


“Up-Close” 


So America I ask you beg you Please;

To 
Tax Me Take Me Fuck Me Love Me And Then Silently Leave Me
In The Dark.
But Please,Don’t Use Me, Tread On MeAbuse Me or Ever Break My Heart
“Again”
For NowLady Liberty is walking the streets & Looking To Make A Buck, & Is   Saying  “Heeeeeeeyyyy Chhhhiiiinnnna”
How Are You?
While, like an angry lover, Jealous, she watches your 
EVERY 
“Move”
And Domestically, MajesticallyAnd Carefully
She says ever so softly; PAY UP.
So,
Democrat Republican Soccer Mom White or BlackWelcome to the Homeland The Tea Party & The Land Of The Numb


WHERE WE THE PEOPLE, ONCE BELIEVED


Once …

BELIEVED
In This, This World 


 IN FREEDOM

And Not Merely
The Dead Sound, Dull Thud Of It,As It’s Soul Is Bleeding Out.

(Don’t Tread On Me)


________________


R.M. ENGELHARDT 2011

_________________





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