LAST  RITES

 

NOTE:

 

Preferred Flowers for funeral… Or one flower only please;

Kennedia … Angelica…Lilac or Iris

And upon said date of expiration,

Please inscribe names of said flowers upon heart, mind & soul

“Here”

Category….  In Word Media

Filed Under:

Lost poets, minor poets, local poets, major poets

DEAD poets living poets no longer in print, paper, journals but on inter-net

Ether-net under new title “another dead white guy” who wrote

“Poems”

Who isn’t so dead anymore… but still wearing black,

Who perhaps just pulled a disappearing act

Or a mystery which you cannot “unravel”

So look for these clues;

Search under true lives, true words & true lines,

Where there are no excuses, false critics or liars

Look for open minds & what matters most.

Burn past, burn history burn intensely into

New realm of being… dream.

Search for her & that’s where you will find

“Me”

 

EGO voveo delecto vos insquequo

terminus of meus dies.

 

 

~ R.M. Engelhardt

Etc Etc Etc

ETC ETC ETC

afutureforpoetry

In thy breaking heart, obscured,
Silent whereas no one
Gives a “shit.”
 

Whereas a single voice or one still moment in
its measure linger,
This message, “unrecieved.”

Where no amount of time, wine-roses or memories can heal.
As human falls, fails broken, out of reason.
Long letters written, months recorded days, photographs and longings,

And unrelenting dreams.

The cold earth, this cold world
Which still compels,
The embodiment or abandonment, of spirit.

Where all of your magnificent angels have flown, and have now fallen below,

To the pavement.

Love, no longer a poem but only a word,
Too slow to process.

Poet, out of time place and season.
Century… Here.

In thy soul, thy breaking heart obscured, silent.
Whereas no one gives a “shit.”

Etc Etc.Etc.

This message “unrecieved.”

RM Engelhardt
has published several books over the last decade including Nod~Logos~Alchemy~The Last Cigarette: The Collected Poems of R.M. Engelhardt & others. His current experimental book of poetry & prose is called “Versus”. His work has also been published by many journals both in print & on the internet including Retort, Verve, The Boston Review, Sure! The Charles Bukowski Newsletter , Thunder Sandwich, The Angry Poet, Full of Crow, Outsider Writers & many others. R.M. currently lives in Albany, NY.

The Future

arnold

 

 

A WANDERER is man from his birth.
He was born in a ship
On the breast of the river of Time;
Brimming with wonder and joy
He spreads out his arms to the light,
Rivets his gaze on the banks of the stream.

As what he sees is, so have his thoughts been.
Whether he wakes,
Where the snowy mountainous pass,
Echoing the screams of the eagles,
Hems in its gorges the bed
Of the new-born clear-flowing stream;
Whether he first sees light
Where the river in gleaming rings
Sluggishly winds through the plain;
Whether in sound of the swallowing sea –
As is the world on the banks,
So is the mind of the man.

Vainly does each, as he glides,
Fable and dream
Of the lands which the river of Time
Had left ere he woke on its breast,
Or shall reach when his eyes have been closed.
Only the tract where he sails
He wots of; only the thoughts,
Raised by the objects he passes, are his.

Who can see the green earth any more
As she was by the sources of Time?
Who imagines her fields as they lay
In the sunshine, unworn by the plough?
Who thinks as they thought,
The tribes who then roam’d on her breast,
Her vigorous, primitive sons?

What girl
Now reads in her bosom as clear
As Rebekah read, when she sate
At eve by the palm-shaded well?
Who guards in her breast
As deep, as pellucid a spring
Of feeling, as tranquil, as sure?

What bard,
At the height of his vision, can deem
Of God, of the world, of the soul,
With a plainness as near,
As flashing as Moses felt
When he lay in the night by his flock
On the starlit Arabian waste?
Can rise and obey
The beck of the Spirit like him?

This tract which the river of Time
Now flows through with us, is the plain.
Gone is the calm of its earlier shore.
Border’d by cities and hoarse
With a thousand cries is its stream.
And we on its breast, our minds
Are confused as the cries which we hear,
Changing and shot as the sights which we see.

And we say that repose has fled
For ever the course of the river of Time.
That cities will crowd to its edge
In a blacker, incessanter line;
That the din will be more on its banks,
Denser the trade on its stream,
Flatter the plain where it flows,
Fiercer the sun overhead.
That never will those on its breast
See an ennobling sight,
Drink of the feeling of quiet again.

But what was before us we know not,
And we know not what shall succeed.

Haply, the river of Time –
As it grows, as the towns on its marge
Fling their wavering lights
On a wider, statelier stream –
May acquire, if not the calm
Of its early mountainous shore,
Yet a solemn peace of its own.

And the width of the waters, the hush
Of the grey expanse where he floats,
Freshening its current and spotted with foam
As it draws to the Ocean, may strike
Peace to the soul of the man on its breast –
As the pale waste widens around him,
As the banks fade dimmer away,
As the stars come out, and the night-wind
Brings up the stream
Murmurs and scents of the infinite sea.

~ Matthew Arnold

Mysticism

Mysticism keeps men sane. As long as you have mystery you have health; when you destroy mystery you create morbidity.

The ordinary man has always been sane because the ordinary man has always been a mystic. He has permitted the twilight. He has always had one foot in earth and the other in fairyland. He has always left himself free to doubt his gods; but (unlike the agnostic of today) free also to believe in them. He has always cared more for truth than for consistency. If he saw two truths that seemed to contradict each other, he would take the two truths and the contradiction along with them. His spiritual sight is stereoscopic, like his physical sight: he sees two different pictures at once and yet sees all the better for that. Thus he has always believed that there was such a thing as fate, but such a thing as free will also.

~   G.K. Chesterton, Orthodoxy,1908))

 

skull

PHAROAH

2Pharaoh-Tutankhamun

So here we go again. I had to bail him out of jail in a place that you probably never heard of near Thebes. You see, back in those days he was kind of like one of your celebrities. The first “bad boy” on the scene before all your Colin Farrell’s & Sean Penn’s, Billy The Kids or Genghis Khans, before the setting sun ever came. Back then bad ass wore a scarab necklace, black eye mascara and a headdress. Fought the 12 snakes and the 12 arrows of the dead and got regularly fucked up like every other weekend. And the last time I saw him we were hanging out at a club called “The Underworld” doing shots with some girls off their navels. I don’t remember the names of the two girls I fucked but I do remember my buddy Set hooking up with some chick from outta town named Kali & immediately they hit it off like they were meant for each other or something and way too much alike. It was like heaven in the 9th sky where the indestructibles liked to hang. It was like climbing the pyramid, a resurrection machine and coming back to life time after time after time. It was a rush, it was a high like no other that you could ever experience. Screw your ecstasy & your science fiction. Thiswas the shit. Long before all of your myths & legends we made your wild nights, necromancers & satanic worshippers look like a Christian book club and a kindergarten class on Halloween. And for awhile, Set & Kali went out on the town and raised hell. Had some fun, caused death, mass destruction and chaos. Broke some hearts and ruined some livespermanently. And then one night, it happened. Kali met some other guy, a local Hindu deity and Set and this boy got into a fight and the night sky blazed with bolts of lightning and thunder. Vedic boy lost and got his ass kicked”dead”. And anyone will tell you that there is nothing more useless than a dead god. Kali freaked and attacked Set and he got arrested by the advanced ones and that’s where I came in. Babysitting the Pharaoh & saving his assagain. So you see? Here we go again. Repeating history and time, repeating all the mistakes of the past. And where’s the lesson you ask? The lesson, is this. Stay away from the angry & insane and all of the vindictive people in this life and step off of the ego trip. Kill the drama and stop killing yourself and get rid of all of your long undead & overdue hate and outgrow your angry adolescence. Because after all, do you think that you’re immortal? A rock star or maybe even a president? Do you think that you’re a pharaoh or a god? Because even after just 100,000 years you like everything else will be forgotten, nothing but dust and sand and a useless footnote between the man-made histories of time. And no one, I say no one will ever give a fucking damn. So what do you want? A gravestone that says that you lived or a legacy that says you’re alive? Or how about just living your life for a change

“Instead”

 

 

 R.M. Engelhardt 2006

 

booktime

 

“Books bend space and time. One reason the owners of those aforesaid little rambling, poky secondhand bookshops always seem slightly unearthly is that many of them really are, having strayed into this world after taking a wrong turning in their own bookshops in worlds where it is considered commendable business practice to wear carpet slippers all the time and open your shop only when you feel like it.”

~  Guards! Guards! – Terry Pratchett