A Good Poem Or Poet …

A good poem or poet
is like a good cigar or a
good whiskey. Everyone
Has their own preferences.

~ R.M. Engelhardt ©2023

On T.S. Elliot & The Death of Poetry. Another Opinion – R.M. Engelhardt

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.

We are still broken.

We just don’t realize it.

~ R.M. Engelhardt

On T.S. Elliot & The Death of Poetry.

R.M. Engelhardt & The Notorious Coffee Quote Scandal

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 ripped off 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!

Twits!

Go buy your own damn coffee.
This one’s mine.

And always shall be.

~R.M. Engelhardt. Writer (And Coffee Addict)

Said Inferior ” Rip Off” Coffee Quote Above

Rainy Days” my Ass (Yawn)

~ R.M. Engelhardt ©2023

Talking Political Writing, Post-Pandemic Arts, and Finding Home with R.M. Engelhardt

*An Interview With Thom Francis of The Hudson Valley Writers Guild.

https://www.mediasanctuary.org/stories/2022/talking-political-writing-post-pandemic-arts-and-finding-home-with-r-m-engelhardt/

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.

Shadows By R.M. Engelhardt

Within each man a shadow exists.

The shadow of his past.
The shadow of his future.

And the shadow of all the things he
Could have been.

~ R.M. Engelhardt

nOpE ~A poem by R.M. Engelhardt

In the beginning was the word, the word
That from the solid bases of the light
Abstracted all the letters of the void;
And from the cloudy bases of the breath
The word flowed up, translating to the heart
First characters of birth and death.

~ Dylan Thomas,
In The Beginning


NoPe

The 1st poem wasn’t
Written in English
In fact it wasn’t
Written in any words
At all

The 1st poem
Was a flower that
A hairy cave man gave to
His beloved

Who thoughtfully
Pondered it’s meaning
& then ate it
And without emotion
Left him

For a muscular
Neanderthal

Named Chad

So the first poem
Was actually a failure
A gesture

Of heartbreak & love
Loneliness & longing

But not enough to
Convey it or even
Reach it’s destination

The heart

Or the soul

And on the cave walls
Were painted crude
Drawings depicting mating
To let a woman know
That she was desired

To which their response
Was ” Ew” and a new
Word which they created called

” NO”

But the art approach
Didn’t work
Quite well either

NOTE:
(*See Bathroom Poetry
History of)

WIKIPEDIA

But once humans
Could speak? Talk?
Well the game
Was on

Hunter gatherers
& Future jock types
Started getting angry
Because skinny guys
In fur beret hats starting
Stealing their women

But they couldn’t figure out how
And to this day

Still cannot

And that’s how it
All began

Poets & artists
Being treated
Like outcasts
Unwanted & disliked
(Musicians soon to follow)

Because they had
Higher IQs
And first somehow knew
That words could be turned

Into “Magic”
& Into light

Spells that could
Invoke what feelings
They held urges they felt
And the things they could see
Or could not

Like the silent moments
Of trees swaying in the distance
Like the beauty of colors in the air
And sea, animals & nature

And within these words
They worshipped all
The mysteries which they
Couldn’t fathom or understand

And turned them
Into something
Called poems

Myths
And gods

So in the beginning
Poetry wasn’t really popular

And still isn’t

But without it
We’d all be lost

For it is the whole
That makes us all human
And what it means to be
Human

And that
Is all we know

That and that throughout
Human history that muscular guys
Named Chad and with similar names
Still hate us

And want to beat us up

Without knowing

Why?

~ R.M. Engelhardt

© Copyright 2022

I SING OF THE BODY DISSECTED. A Poem By R.M. Engelhardt

art*poem by r.m. Engelhardt ©2022

I SING OF THE BODY DISSECTED

So let us now all
Sing or if you believe

Pray

Not of these golden days
But in this dead choir of reprieve
Of anguish of suffering of days

Let us all sing of the 21st century
Of all our failures & the false
Triumphs & of the true progress
Of men

Unmade

Undone

Unseen

Watch &
See how we
So easily destroy

Ignore

Incite

Our own defeat

And on repeat
Like a bad news story
Like history
Still worship greed
And money
The holy dollar
And all the fat politicians
On all sides taking
Away what we once
Called ” Freedom”

As a quaint, dismembered idea

As wars are still waged
Poverty still a slave
We post all our success
Stories

But never our shame

As a dead earth
No longer of beauty
But of a violence unimagined
And obscene

Disgusting.

Weapons
Unimagined & unseen
The end of everything
The end

And the tragedy
The murder of all days

Like all the animals dying &
Loosing space

Oh how inconvenient

How 1980s
And Green

Our voices & our
Votes now all dead and
Useless worthless things

Without any real power for
Truth or change

Countries & governments
In decline still crumbling
And arguing, fighting
Killing over race

And over oil

A disgrace

A disfigurement a
World burning
Forests dying
No gods answering
No gods listening
No god here

Because
No god cares
Or listens
Anymore

This planet
This rock
Used up &
Separated

Dysfunctional
Diseased

Destroyed

With hate
With rage

Peace
Now just
Another trendy word

Forgotten

So for thee I Sing
Of this body
Dissected

Damaged by
Monsters & corrupt men
Fake patriots & grifters
Looking for trophies
And hiding behind a flag

And blaming
All other living beings
For everything
They’ve done

More convenience
More sorrow
More lies
The scapegoat
Followed by the
Image of the Tower card

Falling

As the seasons change
The leaves remain
But we never change

And never will

So for thee I Sing – Scream

For the impoverished
Families and their children starving
I Sing for the ignored
And uneducated the unemployed
And for all those
Guilty of being
Human beings

With hope
With dreams
With love
With faith

I sing for humanity
I sing for change

For Black lives
For all lives
For Suicides
And for all those buried
Beneath us in unmarked graves of
Unrest & genocide
And for all those who
Believe in a Jesus Christ

( Or not )

I Sing for
The Great Spirit
That once roamed
This land now a mere
Figment of imagination
Lost in the blood of
My ancestors

The flags all at half mast
Concealing the sadness
The truth

Of a nation
Once called America

Ashamed

I Sing of the body
The whole of the soul
Dissected

Diseased

Where Walt Whitman
Would now if alive
Weep over it’s reality
And in it’s sorrow
Walk away

Where Lincoln would
Crawl up into a ball
And simply

Choose to die

I Sing of A Nation of the
Body dissected

By cannibals
Who’ve erased all of
It’s glory

And where there
Is no honor, spark of
Democracy, decency
Or even electricity

Left

~ R.M. Engelhardt
©2022

The Last Real Poet

The Last Real Poet By R.M. Engelhardt

THE LAST REAL POET

The last real poet
Sits alone by himself
Somewhere in a cabin
In Upstate NY
Around the age of 95

Still alive

But they all forgot about him
Years Ago

The prizes
The many lives many
Loves he had once

His memory fades
From time to time
Unsure if it was all real

Meeting Kerouac
Was just like yesterday
Reading upon the stage
Drinking beers & whiskey
Meeting all the Beatniks &
Ferlinghetti

Ginsburg was just
A smart kid, Corso a punk
Who swore alot
And clammored
For everyone’s attention

Whining

He remembers
The applause and the hip
Hot beautiful girl with long brown
Hair who took him home
That night

Only to receive
A long distance call
From her nine months
Later

Hey
Daddy’O

What gives?

Where’s the
Dough?

So
He wrote
And wrote
And wrote

Was published
Everywhere
His books now rare

Recieves letters
Every now & then
From college kids
Who found one of
His books at a library dollar
Sale, praising him
As a genius, a poet

But the literary cannon

Doesn’t
Never cares
Or gives in
Or gives a shit

Recognize
Beauty or sadness
Street poets or
Vagabonds
Madness or unformalist
Poetry

Far too consumed
With the fear of
Honesty, cancel
Culture or a frightful
Reckoning

When most
Of his kind are
All dead

His legacy
Torn from the days
The pages of true
Freedom & non censorship

We were all labeled ” Communists”
For publishing

The Truth

Stood

Behind
Martin Luther King
And at Jack’s
Grave the same
Decade

Saw
The world
His words helped
To create only
To be betrayed
By all those hippies
Who traded in their love
For the mighty dollar

“Sorry”

But we can’t
Publish you

Your work
Just doesn’t
Seem to fit

We just want
To hear another
Version of the same old
Shit we just published
Last week

“Fuck Off”

His rough voice says

Fuck. Off.

With your
Boring trite mighty
White ass kissing
Journal of garbage
Packaged in flowers
That follows trends

Do you have a Facebook?
An Instagram?

Fuck no.

Poetry
Is meant to live
Upon the page

And not
On some ridiculous
Flavor of the month
TV screen

Takes a shot
Of whiskey

Goes to sleep

And dreams

Where he and
Mingus are
Shooting pool
In a NYC dive bar

And
He smacks
Some faux celebrity
Writer in the head
Smoking a diva stick

For talking too much

And being
Annoying

The last real poet
Sat alone by himself
Somewhere in a cabin
In Upstate NY
And last night he died
Around the age of 95

A small obituary
Appeared in the NY Times

And thousands
Of writers & poets
On their computers
Put up memorials with
His poems claiming

He was a genius
And I’ve read all
His books

Which
Two months later
Appeared in all the
Bookstores

Published by
The boring trite mighty
White ass kissing
Journal of garbage
Packaged in flowers
That follows trends

Who bought
All the rights
To his life

With the sales pitch:

He was friends with Kerouac
And Bukowski before Bukowski

He was The Last Real Poet

Buried now

In an unassuming pauper’s

Grave

~ R.M. Engelhardt
©2022

Coming In June DMITRY WILD AT INVOCATION OF THE MUSE POETRY OPEN MIC ALBANY

DMITRY WILD AT INVOCATION OF THE MUSE POETRY OPEN MIC

DMITRY WILD AT INVOCATION OF THE MUSE POETRY OPEN MIC AT LARK HALL
Sponsored By Dead Man’s Press Ink Albany NY

INVOCATION OF THE MUSE: 

MONDAY JUNE 6TH With Our Featured Poet

DMITRY WILD ( Of Dmitry Wild & The Spells)

With HOUSES IN MOTION (Beats + Electronics)

ALBANY, NY’s OPEN MIC FOR POETS, WRITERS, POETRY & THE SPOKEN WORD AT LARK HALL!

 *Join Us For Our Monthly Open Mic At 

LARK HALL 351 Hudson Avenue , Albany NY

*7:30pm Sign Up

8pm StartTime

*$5.00 Donation Requested*

Sponsored By 

DEAD MAN’S PRESS INK ALBANY NY

Hosted By R.M. Engelhardt

www.deadmanspressink.com

Of Spirit, Ash & Bone By R.M. Engelhardt Now Available on Amazon

Of Spirit, Ash & Bone Now Available on Amazon

OF SPIRIT, ASH & BONE
Is the New Book By Author, Poet & Writer R.M. Engelhardt is something entirely different & new that has been written in the poetic form & style of Sermons & Southern Gothic*Biblical Religious texts as well as in other verse styles. Unlike his previous poems and works over the last some 25 years Engelhardt uses these old forms to take on the problems and issues of today, now the 21st Century like War, Poverty, Racism & The Earth’s Present State of Oppression & Global Warming. Still a strong proponent and supporter of unique, experimental literary forms and Pagan Poetics R.M. Engelhardt has created a book which thus transcends, returns us all to a lost forgotten language of old and of the pure school of “Damnation, Fire & Brimstone” in the context of reaching a new generation with the warnings and poetic prophecies of change before it’s far too late.

Get Your Copy Here:

http://www.deadmanspressink.com
R.M. Engelhardt