American Portrait MLK Poetry Project

https://news.northwestern.edu/stories/2021/01/trethewey-mlk-day/#.YARmQPKb-rU.twitter

Happy To Be A Part of This PBS American Portrait Project On Martin Luther King Day.

~ R.M. Engelhardt

https://www.pbs.org/american-portrait/story/23568/rm-e-troy-ny-for-my-people

#poetry #pbs #mlkday #rmengelhardt #gentlemanoutsider #writers #america #poets

It’s Official. Poets & Writers

It’s Official.

After many years of publishing, writing and creating groups and poetry spoken-word events such as Albany Poets, Vox, The School of Night, The Albany WordFest, The Troy Poetry Mission and many others I’ve finally been honored with my listing in Poets & Writers.

Thank you.

Poets & Writers R.M. Engelhardt

#rmengelhardt #albanypoets #poetsandwriters #gentlemanoutsider

OF CONVERSATIONS, FRIENDS & ANGELS

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OF CONVERSATIONS
FRIENDS & ANGELS

 
Today

I come to you
In the memory
Of old friends

Conversation

Over lost time
And lost years

That have
Mysteriously
Vanished

In both tragedy
And revelation

Grief
And silence

Detached from
This mere
Mortal coil

To remember them;

They who were
Once here and
They who once loved
And who we all
Once were once
Upon a time long
Ago as well
In a love, a friendship

A moment

Meant with soul
So fiercely

Now
Vauge

Idle
In dreaming

For you see
As we go on
Our minds
Have learned to
Play tricks

Deceptions

In a veil of youth
& passing days

Drunken illusions
And insignificant
Slights now
Forgotten

Replaced by
What was once in our
Hearts our true
Appearance

A realization
That to be human
Is to be flawed

But these things
Are small pins
Needles

Inconsequential

Now forgotten

So in coming years
We shall sit down & remember them
And have a conversation
Like old friends
Should have like
All friends living

Until

Into the light &
The brilliance
Of angels
We go

Onto
To the next
Mortal
Dream

Without remorse

 

 

~ R.M. Engelhardt

03.16.2019

 

Write.

Inspiration Poetry
Follow inspiration, not popularity.
Write from the soul, not for the world.
~ R.M. Engelhardt

WRITE.
Manifest power in words.
Write poetry.
Name your own humanity.
Ponder creation thru inner meaning.
Find hidden voices in the universal consciousness of soul.
Find yourself, and then return again.
Poetry is the sacred religion
Of both time & space older than
Civilization itself.
Poetry is dead.
Poetry is living.
Poetry is everything.
Poetry is a language
Unto itself that is understood.
Poetry will never die
It will still appear in places
Long after you are dust
So write.
That’s all.
That’s it.
Write.
~ R.M. Engelhardt

POETS ARE WELCOME …

 R.M. ENGELHARDT

 

“That’s the god damn problem with Albany, NY” She said.

“There are too many fucking poets “

In the city

Where I was born

They tore it all down

So many times

That we all forgot.

Because you see

I was born

In a place

Where the lives get

Lines and the stories

Become lives

Of their own.

Full of gangsters

And politicians, low

Dealers and the cops

Gotham city at it’s finest

Without a single hero

To write about it

Except us.

Because we’re just the fucking poets

And because were not the fucking law

And we are only here to tell the stories

Because this is all we own

Because we’re

The poets & the outcasts

And the makers of the songs

And the leftover soul of a city

That’s heading for a fall

And if Jesus came tomorrow

And if God closed the pearly gates

We’d still all just be the poets

Writing poems till the end of days

And we don’t write for glory

And we don’t write for time

We just write because we have to

Without a rhythm or a rhyme

So even if you leave here

Or you meet a sad demise

Remember that you’re a poet

And that’s just enough to survive

Because

 Without the words?

It all means nothing

At all

And the poets

Will always be welcome

“Here”

_____________

R.M. ENGELHARDT

The Article

Article In The Times Union Newspaper on "The Resurrection Waltz" March 2013
Article In The Times Union Newspaper on “The Resurrection Waltz” March 2013

Read It Here:

https://rmthewriter.wordpress.com/2013/03/14/poet-r-m-engelhardt-finds-hope-in-words-times-union-31413

MEMENTO~POEM TO PAST SELF IN FUTURE TENSE : Poems 2oo2

NOD Moon Stars Sun Time Poems By R.M. Engelhardt 2002



MEMENTO


Better to feel

                 (Than be)

Blood rushes thru veins

And the heart beats,

Only one-day to complete its duty.

While eventually earth and gods shall all come

Crashing down

And kingdoms & civilizations fade.

And so please, I ask you only this;

That when I leave to let me take these

Few things with me,

The moon, the sun and the stars,

And the small traces of light which

Once reflected in your eyes

That I 

Can no longer

See.




_________________


POEM TO PAST SELF IN FUTURE TENSE

Yours is a beauty of monsterous

proportions with the world 

Spinning randomly into 

Oblivion where all the leaves are all

Dying all the time off the trees,

Where misery makes its way into

Every small tissue stealing.

Yours is a world where 

Beauty has fled and has left town 

For greener pastures, has drowned its-

Self into the sea of angst & tears and

Has mixed its-self with alcohol & 

Cigarettes, sad poems and

Indiscriminate men & women who

Already know that beauty has left

The scene,

(And they no longer care to find her)

And yet it is good that beautyhas

Finally found you and that beauty is not dead,

But was merely sleeping

On the sofa of your

Dreams.




______________

Poems By R.M. Engelhardt

From The Book “Nod. (moon, stars, sun … time)

2oo2



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

Albany Poets

WWW.ALBANYPOETS.COM


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 Dead Crooner

The Kenmore Hotel

THE DEAD CROONER

This ain’t the story of Bing Crosby. And sure as shit ain’t the story of Sinatra or Fred Astaire either. This is a story unfit for Bobbie-soxers & the elderly. And this is not the story of some sentimental journey, a very very long-time “ago”.

So let’s all get nostalgic and flashback as they say to the golden days. Where dreams were a dime a dozen and love was still innocent,for a few. At least that’s what they say. This story starts back in the days when some guys named “The Nazi’s” were just starting up the party in a place called Germany, and when some shit-head named Adolph Hitler who they called “DA Fur her” told the world that they were all inferior to his master race. Then one day in the neighborhood he just came along they say. A young man in his early 30’s, not a kid at all but some guy who looked like he had it all together. With his leather jacket flung over his one arm, hair slicked back with pomade and a Lucky-Strike dangling from the corner of his lip. Five feet-10inch’s & all the the girls said “He’s a dish”. That confident smile, the smart ass knowing grin, and a voice they all say that they remembered as sounding like some kind of magic, some kind of bird as he walked from place to place in Albany. He, knowing everybody back then, and everybody knowing him.

“Don’t let your daughters go near that crazy jazz fella!”, All the mothers would say,”He’s trouble!”. As if just by the sight of looking at him all their daughters would instantly become impregnated. But the secret is, the rumor was was that some of those mom’s wanted & got some “singing” lessons on the side themselves.

“Hey!, I’m singing at the club tonight!” He’d tell them. “The New Kenmore Hotel” You should come check me out. the legend being that he had learned to sing from and that his voice was a gift from singing in some negro~black churches when he was younger, and that over the years he had sang with all the creme de’la creme as well. Bull Moose, P. Baby Dodds & The Scranton Singers as well as many others. Rumors that he was into “Voo doo” strange drugs & everything else and that he didn’t worship God, like a good Sunday-morning christian. But night after night his orchestra & his beautiful voice had filled the room as couples danced, swayed and fell in love. Going on forever as if the music would never stop. Gallagher? What was his last name they say these days? The big band historians don’t remember.

Then, one night, as the old-story goes. Upon the dark streets of Albany after all the bars closed. A debt was settled & paid …in full. Y’see the singer, the crooner didn’t know what he had gotten himself into. As if there were some hand of strange fate that had reached out and ended his brief career. What happened was he crossed the wrong man’s, the devil’s path as they say. A man known in the city known as “Legs Diamond”. And a man who wasn’t pleased that some good-looking, handsome singer with his tones of gold, was screwing his girlfriend inside the hotel. And on that dark, cold night one October as the wind brushed by his face, walking down Broadway, the crooner got snared by some of Diamond’s men. And that was the night he paid the devil his due. As still alive, screaming they held him there on that street corner and cut him open deep from chest to throat. Gutted him, still breathing…screaming & gasping for air, like a fish. And then as legend has it took the only thing that that boy had had left. His voice. And dumped the rest his body in the Hudson River but took that one piece of him..that made him unique, and hid it somewhere, possibly in a palace, where no one except Legs would know where to find.And O’Connell and all the police..did nothing.

But many years have passed, long ago since that fateful night. Times change, times swing and time goes by, and they rock n’ roll and have moved onto bigger & better things, where the streets & all the old buildings of that era remain empty and vacant. All of the people from another time, seemingly erased as well as the gangsters who are also remembered vaguely. But the kids? They just keep on dancing, whatever the newest craze, as they should. And yet what happened to Gallagher? they never found his body or anything that was left of him, and remains for the better part of things “A Ghost” in the history of the time of the big bands. Yet every now and then, when the city streets are empty in the early near-morning hours under the streetlights as you are walking you can still hear some strange-sweet beautiful voice singing from out of nowhere, a phantom that lulls you into thinking that someone is walking towards you from around the corner, which you turn. And it has been reported by strangers & college students that if you listen that you may possibly see him there. A good-looking man in his mid-30’s in a pinstripe suit, smoking a cigarette, who then suddenly & mysteriously fades away.And in Albany they refer to him as “The Dead Crooner”. an urban legend, as they say. Appearing..here & there to the ladies as they walk by what’s left of The Kenmore saying

“Hey beautiful? Can I sing you a dream?

And then, just vanishing…into thin air.

___________________

R.M. Engelhardt

Nevermore …

There are surely other worlds than this—other thoughts than the thoughts of the multitude— other speculations than the speculations of the sophist. Who then shall call thy conduct into question? who blame thee for thy visionary hours, or denounce those occupations as a wasting away of life, which were but the overflowing of thine everlasting energies?

Edgar Allan Poe – The Assignation