How It All Began : A Memoir On Albany Poets & The Albany WordFest

Albany Poets

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http://saintpoem.wordpress.com/2012/03/19/how-it-all-began-albany-poets-the-albany-wordfest

How It All Began : A Memoir On Albany Poets & The Albany WordFest

The Raven: An All Hallows Eve Tribute To Edgar Allan Poe At The UAG, Albany NY

MONDAY, OCTOBER 31st ~ Halloween

The Upstate Artists Guild

247 Lark Street

Albany, NY

New Work On Albany Poets, Albany-NY

Poetry Lives In Albany NY

By Thom Francis 

As part of rolling out the new AlbanyPoets.com website, we are inviting the poets on the site to send us some new work that we can post. One of the first poets to take us up on the offer happens to be one of the first poets on the site when Albany Poets began in 2000.

Albany, NY based poet, writer R.M. 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-Lexikon” A poet & writer, Engelhardt through his ideas & visions has helped to create a large amount of the Upstate, Albany, NY spoken word~poetry scene and is the host of “SAINT POEM READING SERIES” an Open Forum-Mic For All Poets held every 3rd Monday of each month at The Upstate Artists Guild (UAG).His work has also been published by many journals on the net & in print including Retort, Verve, Industrial Nation, Sure! The Charles Bukowski Newsletter, Thunder Sandwich, Fashion For Collapse, 2nd Avenue, The Angry Poet, Danse Macabre, Full of Crow & many others.

New Work On Albany Poets, Albany-NY

Poem “Burn” In Red Fez

burn

Poem By R.M. Engelhardt.  June 2011

Poem “Burn” In Red Fez

THE ENEMY OF MY ENEMY IS YOUR GOD MY FRIEND…

WAR = DEATH

THE ENEMY OF MY ENEMY
IS YOUR GOD MY FRIEND

Oh Dear God
Oh see how they bleed
Oh Dear God, my Lord.

Oh Dear God
Oh see how they plead
Oh Dear God, my Lord.

My Lord;
Who we wait for
Scream for
On the battlefields
Of every war

Antagonist.

Protagonist.

Oh thy Lord,

You upon
Our side

Their side.

No questions
No explanations

Asked
Or ever given.

For my brothers
We will see you
Once more & again

In “Heaven”

“Elysium”

Or on the fields of
The Fallen,
And The Honored

“Dead”

Where no uniforms
Are ever worn
As in Valhalla
We all toast

And sing
Another song.

Oh Dear God
Oh see how they bleed
Oh Dear God, my Lord.

Oh Dear God
Oh see how they plead
Oh Dear God, my Lord.

See how they are born
Oh Dear God My Lord

And See how they grow
Oh Dear God My Lord

And Dear God?

See how
They Die

“Alone …Screaming”

Amen.

___________

R.M. ENGELHARDT

People Kill People

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


The Aesthetics Of Anger… Poem

The Aesthetics Of Anger

When said the moon to the stars in the sky
A small boy was born upon the day his mother died
Upon his 30th day did also rise
An only son in September.

And when he was young and death did follow
Him like a bird and left him hollow
At five & twelve & 13 lives
A trail of tears & unspoken goodbyes
That made him all like quiet

And dead to him-self, inside.

The solitary boy who learned to read big books
Who found all the poets, verses & hooks
And who lived in a mind of his own.

And the boy got in trouble, the boy he got in fights
Stood up for the weak ones
And blackened bullies eyes, broke their noses
And bloodied their tries at being the toughest kid
And he never, lost a fight.

But it was’nt out of cause that the boy became bad
And it was’nt cause he had ever had
A reason to ever hurt anyone else
At all.

It was just all because of the matter, and
The Aesthetics Of Anger

And the will to hurt all
Those who hurt others, and deserved it as well,
To kill, hurt and keep the inevitable its self,
The oncoming years from coming
To destroy that which one cannot see
Something that comes to both you & me unceasing.

Stealing his love, and stealing his friends
One day, at a time.

And many years passed
And many things changed
Many lives left
And many hearts came
And softly entered into
The procession of his life

And the boy, now a man finally
Figured out what he was
And was finally meant to be,

Not a doctor or a wraith
Or a quiet man of hate, the shaman or a slave to all those
Who want power over the masses or to be the best

For he was only born to be
hardcore troubadour, a poet
And a man of words incarnate
Using his voice, and words as weapons
To fight & to defeat
All those who would try to
Kill the spirit that dwells within

With versus
And sarcasm
Truth & history
New images & myths

And that’s why he was born.

To be the hand up Mona Lisa’s dress,
To be the heart within your chest
The voice that beats and holds you close
And says the things you want the most
That you can’t say yourself.

To become the dark
And become the light
Tween’ both worlds
He’s traveled this night
And wrote & brought back
Something that
Another never could

For you see? It’s not his fault,

For it was just all because of the matter, and
The Aesthetics Of Anger

That you & the forces that be
Created themselves

The words, now his weapons

And the boy has been beaten, bloodied,
Stabbed &
Knocked down

But has never lost a fight yet,

And never “Will”

The Aesthetics Of Anger... Poem

____________

R.M. Engelhardt  2011

Poetry Reading…

Poetry Reading

SAINT POEM AT THE UAG, ALBANY NY

    To be a boxer, or not to be there
    at all. O Muse, where are our teeming crowds?
    Twelve people in the room, eight seats to spare
    it’s time to start this cultural affair.
    Half came inside because it started raining,
    the rest are relatives. O Muse.

    The women here would love to rant and rave,
    but that’s for boxing. Here they must behave.
    Dante’s Infemo is ringside nowadays.
    Likewise his Paradise. O Muse.

    Oh, not to be a boxer but a poet,
    one sentenced to hard shelleying for life,
    for lack of muscles forced to show the world
    the sonnet that may make the high-school reading lists
    with luck. O Muse,
    O bobtailed angel, Pegasus.

    In the first row, a sweet old man’s soft snore:
    he dreams his wife’s alive again. What’s more,
    she’s making him that tart she used to bake.
    Aflame, but carefully-don’t burn his cake!
    we start to read. O Muse.

    – Wislawa Szymborska

    _________________

R.M. Engelhardt. Writer~Poet-Albany,NY

Where you can find my thoughts & poems…

http://feeds.feedburner.com/RmEngelhardt

www.rmengelhardtpoet.com

http://albanypoetrm.blogspot.com

R.M. Engelhardt. Writer~Poet-Albany,NY