The Open Library : R.M. Engelhardt

The Last Cigarette Poems R.M. Engelhardt

The Last Cigarette:

The Collected Poems

Of R.M. Engelhardt

 

These are the earlier collected works of Albany, NY based poet, writer & author R.M. Engelhardt who has published several books over the last two decades. 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 The Saint Poem Reading Series. Through his efforts he has created such groups the Albany Poetry Syndicate as well as Albany Poets (www.AlbanyPoets.com), which have left a lasting mark on the upstate NY literary scene. His work has also been published by many journals both in print & on the net including Retort, Verve, Fashion For Collapse, Sure! The Charles Bukowski Newsletter, Copious Amounts, Thunder Sandwich, The Angry Poet, 2nd Avenue Poetry, Full of Crow & in many others.

 
 

The Open Library

A WRITERS ADVICE

A Writers Advice

 

Poetry and cigarettes

May save your soul,

Or what once

Someone told me

Before I grew old,

 

And scotch and women?

 

It’s all the same,

For these four things

Shall keep you quite sane

 

But now that I’m older

And wiser for wear

I know it’s only love

That keeps our souls here.

 

For words

Might be wisdom

And the words may be true

But love is more

Beautiful and

Far wiser than you

 

(shall ever ever be)

 

 

~ R.M.

The spirit lives as long as someone who lives remembers you

R  I  P

“The spirit lives as long as someone who lives remembers you”

 

 

An angel goes to her rest,
Never more to suffer.
God brings her soul to Heaven.
Earth buries what she left behind.
Lo, though we cry for her sleep.
Alive, shall she always remain.

 

~ Unknown

 

 

________________
“Death steals everything except our stories.”

~ Jim Harrison

__________________

 

RIP 

Shakespeare’s Sonnets Published Today In 1609

Shakespeare's Sonnets (1609) Shakespeare's Sonnets, quarto published by Thomas Thorpe, London, 1609
Shakespeare’s Sonnets (1609)
Shakespeare’s Sonnets, quarto published by Thomas Thorpe, London, 1609
Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove.
O no, it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wand’ring bark,
Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken.
~   William Shakespeare
shakespeare

Ian Curtis: The Lost Lyrics…Poems By

Gone 35 years ago today…

R.M. ENGELHARDT

Ian Curtis put an end to his life the night of May 18, 1980, two days before the roadshow to the United States. The lead singer of Joy Division played “The Idiot” of Iggy Pop in his pickup and hung himself in his kitchen in Macclesfield, leaving a short note: “This moment I would want to be dead, I simply cannot take it anymore”. In these few words, the enormity of a brilliant mind came to an end. It took him maybe few seconds, to tight the rope around his neck, deciding that this world is not enough for him. It took him only few seconds to decide that he would be better off someplace else, away from human cynicism.

an Curtis’ writings condemn cynicism, the lack of ethics, the autocratic greed of the Western world, and the secret nature of insight. For Curtis’ ability to integrate anything together and…

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Chapter & Verse: On poetry and kitsch

Johns Hopkins University Press Blog

With the Modern Language Association’s 2014 meeting now in full-swing, we’re pleased to publish a second installment of Chapter & Verse today. This post draws from Daniel Tiffany’s work discussing the idea and history of “kitsch” as it relates to poetry. 

tiffany“Once upon a time, long before it had been reduced to a synonym for mediocrity in the arts, the term ‘kitsch’ functioned as a lightning rod in debates about mass culture and the fate of modernism confronting the rise of fascism in Europe in the 1920’s and 1930’s.  For a word now applied quite casually to trivial and spurious things, ‘kitsch’ has a surprising history of provoking alarm and extreme reactions.”— From My Silver Planet: A Secret History of Poetry and Kitschby Daniel Tiffany

My Silver Planet makes the case for fundamentally redefining “kitsch” as a bridge between the elite and vernacular, as opposed to something to…

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MY THERAPISTS ARE MR. ZEVON & MR. SCOTCH

Warren Zevon

R.M. ENGELHARDT

 

warren-zevonpoem

She’s gone.

Temporarily

Forever

Finding me

Here alone on the couch in

The middle of

Another Sunday afternoon

With my good friends

The Clan Macallan

& Warren Zevon

Reminiscing about all

Of the old days & all of

The best days past.

Yet, perhaps it’s all

Just an illusion

Or maybe it’s just the sounds

That bring us all back to

To the land of

Stark raving reality from

The momentary

And marked passing

Of punk poetry, slam dancing

And black leather jackets.

As Warren says to me

“Life Will Kill Ya”

And Macallan says to me

No worries my good son

“Drink up”

For she will soon

Return with

The love that you

Gave her

And your

Foolish, sentimental heart

In her pocket

“Too”

_______________

R.M. ENGELHARDT

From “The Resurrection Waltz”, 2013

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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