R.M. Engelhardt's Blog: Burn Brightly, page 13
June 23, 2014
Ruthless Gravity
Originally posted on R.M. ENGELHARDT:
Ruthless Gravity
S
Tonight on television
there is an actor talking about his battle with
drug addiction, sex addiction and life.
You would think that by the way
the host is interviewing him
that he is wise & worldly, an
ancient sage from his
battle with the curse
of “celebrity”
And there are a billion lights
in the great big city, a million lives
that get up everyday and go to work like
everybody else. And their addiction is food,
their addiction is rent and how to somehow
get thru the next day and make sure that
their children are dressed, educated & well-fed.
So the question is is that when you
look at the world do you see a gift? Or do you see an
enemy? Do you have faith or do you pretend that
all of these famous people are like you or your friends?
The constant partying,
View original 109 more words
June 22, 2014
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
“In order to understand the world, one has to turn awa...
“In order to understand the world, one has to turn away from it on occasion.”
~ Albert Camus
Etc Etc Etc
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.
June 20, 2014
and the eye must burn again and again
through each of ...
and the eye must burn again and again
through each of its lost moments
until it sees
~ W.S. Merwin
June 19, 2014
Formless spiritual.
Father, Word and Holy Breath.
Formless spiritual.
Father, Word and Holy Breath.
June 18, 2014
Quote Today
Arm yourself with pens and imagination, the paper is the empty space between the silence and the void. Fill it with words and ideas of grand thoughts and designs, unseen moments glimpsed out of secret corners.
~ R.M.
June 17, 2014
June 15, 2014
The Future
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
Burn Brightly
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