The Death Of Shelly

The_Funeral_of_Shelley_by_Louis_Edouard_Fournier

 

All the earth and air                

With thy voice is loud

_________

Death Is Here And Death Is There

I.
Death is here and death is there,
Death is busy everywhere,
All around, within, beneath,
Above is death—and we are death.

II.
Death has set his mark and seal
On all we are and all we feel,
On all we know and all we fear,

III.
First our pleasures die—and then
Our hopes, and then our fears—and when
These are dead, the debt is due,
Dust claims dust—and we die too.

IV.
All things that we love and cherish,
Like ourselves must fade and perish;
Such is our rude mortal lot–
Love itself would, did they not.

Percy Bysshe Shelley

Today, in July 1822, Mary Shelley and Jane Williams awaited with weeping anxiety the return of Percy Bysshe Shelley, who, sailing from Livorno in his fragile craft, had come to shore by sudden chance among the silences of the Elysian Isles. – O blessed shores, where Love, Liberty and Dreams have no chains.”This unearthly legend had been built up steadily throughout the 19th century. Shelley’s wife Mary herself launched it, writing immediately after his death: “I was never the Eve of any Paradise, but a human creature blessed by an elemental spirit’s company & love – an angel who imprisoned in flesh could not adapt himself to his clay shrine & so has flown and left it.”

Shelley drowned in his own sailing boat, the Don Juan, while returning from Livorno to Lerici, in the late afternoon of July 8 1822, during a violent summer storm. He was a month short of his 30th birthday. Like Keats’s death in Rome the year before, or Byron’s death at Missolonghi two years later, this sudden tragedy set a kind of sacred (or profane) seal upon his reputation as a youthful, sacrificial genius. But far more comprehensively than theirs, Shelley’s death was used to define an entire life, to frame a complete biography.

shelly(source:  http://www.theguardian.com/books/2004/jan/24/featuresreviews.guardianreview1)

 

O World of many worlds

owen

O World of many worlds, O life of lives,
What centre hast thou? Where am I?
O whither is it thy fierce onrush drives?
Fight I, or drift; or stand; or fly?

The loud machinery spins, points work in touch;
Wheels whirl in systems, zone in zone.
Myself having sometime moved with such,
Would strike a centre of mine own.

Lend hand, O Fate, for I am down, am lost!
Fainting by violence of the Dance…
Ah thanks, I stand – the floor is crossed,
And I am where but few advance.

I see men far below me where they swarm…
(Haply above me – be it so!
Does space to compass-points conform,
And can we say a star stands high or low?)

Not more complex the millions of the stars
Than are the hearts of mortal brothers;
As far remote as Neptune from small Mars
Is one man’s nature from another’s.

But all hold course unalterably fixed;
They follow destinies foreplanned:
I envy not these lives in their faith unmixed,
I would not step with such a band.

To be a meteor, fast, eccentric, lone,
Lawless; in passage through all spheres,
Warning the earth of wider ways unknown
And rousing men with heavenly fears…

This is the track reserved for my endeavour;
Spanless the erring way I wend.
Blackness of darkness is my meed for ever?
And barren plunging without end?

O glorious fear! Those other wandering souls
High burning through that outer bourne
Are lights unto themselves. Fair aureoles
Self-radiated these are worn.

And when in after times those stars return
And strike once more earth’s horizon,
They gather many satellites astern,
For they are greater than this system’s Sun.

~ Wilfred Owen

TO ALL THE NEW POETS OF A YOUNG CENTURY

NEWPOETSOFANEWCENTURY.jpg

 

 

So

 

You want to be a poet?

 

Then stand in line

 

Because just like every other damn poet

That ever came before you

You’ll have to write

 

And Twitter, Tumblr, Fumblr

Whatever, will never save

Your sorry ass

 

And the Pushcart Prize?

They won’t reward you

For writing a Facebook

Status that’s poetic

 

And just like

Emily, no one no

Publisher will ever

Come knocking

At your door

Looking for your poems

 

So listen;

 

Because there is no new

Jack Kerouac, no new Bukowski

And no new Poe

 

And Shakespeare?

 

He threw down his pencil

A longtime ago after Marlowe

Bought the farm

 

So just like all of the most

Famous poets of old expect

No compliments, no fortune

And no dough and learn how

To live on noodles

 

And believe me

When I say that

When you tell Mom & Dad

That you want to be

A poet someday?

 

Don’t expect them to

Embrace you or let you

Ever move back home again

 

Because remember

 

That this is the life that you chose

And if you ever finally find

Finally write that one piece

That one amazing epiphany

That says it all and that says

Everything and that has the

Power to knock the world

On its ass?

 

Then maybe one day

You’ll be able to look

In the mirror and say

 

It was all worth it.

_____________

R.M. ENGELHARDT 

Most Great Poets

Most great poems never see the light of day. And most great poets?

They pass away in the night unknown to a world that desperately needs their words.

 

~ R.M.

shadow poets

The Theory and Techniques of Surrealist Poetry

burroughs alien
http://alangullette.com/essays/lit/surreal.htm

georgeoppen1

 

 

“They have lost the metaphysical sense
Of the future, they feel themselves
The end of a chain
Of lives, single lives
And we know that lives
Are single
And cannot defend
The metaphysic
On which rest
The boundaries
Of our distances.”

~ George Oppen

Style

Bukowski

 

“Style is the answer to everything. A fresh way to approach a dull or dangerous thing. To do a dull thing with style is preferable to doing a dangerous thing without it. To do a dangerous thing with style is what I call art.”
~ Charles Bukowski

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.