R.M. Engelhardt's Blog: Burn Brightly, page 41

“Poetry presupposes an inspired knowledge of man’s se...

 

“Poetry presupposes an inspired knowledge of man’s sensuous and spiritual nature.  Smithcraft—for the smith was also carpenter, mason, shipwright, and toolmaker—presupposes an inspired knowledge of how to transform lifeless material into active forms.  No ancient smith would have dared to proceed without the aids of medicine and poetry.  The charcoal used on his forge had been made, with spells, at a certain time of the year from timber of certain sacred trees; and the leather of the forge bellows, from the skin of a sacred animal ritually sacrificed. Before starting a task, he and his assistant were obliged to purify themselves with medicines and lustrations, and to placate the Spites which habitually crowd around forge and anvil.  If he happened to be forging a sword, the water in which it was to be tempered must have magical properties—May dew, or spring water in which a virgin princess had washed her hair.  The whole work was done to the accompaniment of poetic spells.

Such spells matched the rhythm of the smith’s hammers; and these were of unequal weight.

A sledge hammer was swung by the assistant; the smith himself managed the lighter hammer. To beat out hot metal successfully, one must work fast and follow a prearranged scheme.

The smith with his tongs lays the glowing lump of iron on the anvil, then touches with his hammer the place where the sledge blow is to fall; next he raps on the anvil the number of blows required.  Down comes the sledge; the smith raps again for another blow, or series of blows.  Experience teaches him how many can be got in while the iron is still hot.  So each state of every process had its peculiar metre, to which descriptive words became attached; and presently the words found their own tunes … Nor did the smith … let caprice rule the number and shape of ornaments that he introduced into his work.  Whether he was forging a weapon, or a piece of armour, or a tool, or a cauldron, or a jewelled collar, every element in the design had a magical significance.”

~ Robert Graves, from his essay “Harp, Anvil, Oar” in The Structure of Verse, edited by Harvey Gross (The Ecco Press, 1979)

Choose …

Choose Life. Choose a job. Choose a career. Choose a family.

Choose a fucking big television, choose washing machines, cars,

compact disc players and electrical tin openers. Choose good

health, low cholesterol, and dental insurance. Choose fixed

interest mortage repayments. Choose a starter home. Choose your

friends. Choose leisurewear and matching luggage. Choose a

three-piece suite on hire purchase in a range of fucking fabrics.

Choose DIY and wondering who the fuck you are on a Sunday morning.

Choose sitting on that couch watching mind-numbing, spirit-crushing

game shows, stuffing fucking junk food into your mouth. Choose

rotting away at the end of it all, pishing your last in a miserable

home, nothing more than an embarrassment to the selfish, fucked up

brats you spawned to replace yourself.

Choose your future.

Choose life.

~ John Hodge’s Poem

(Featured in Trainspotting)

appetite for creation by steve kilbey

appetite for creation

by steve kilbey

Steve Kilbey

saint steven shot with light

unfathomable ineffable god

needed some cat to dig some parts of his creation

that no one was picking up on and so he created me

he chucked me together nearly sixty years ago

and he said to me as he has always said to me

my man look at all this stuff !

and true enough with just the thinnest skin that is bearable

i have drunk deep of his creation

and verily i am staggering in amazement

did he realise….?

that he had imbued me with my own tiny propensity for creation

as part of him i strive to be like him

as a drop of water is to the sea

i have all of his propensities but in childish minuscule proportions

i cannot create worlds

so i create worlds within music and words and art

yes tangible worlds i weave according to my various ways

which are all laughable compared to my god

but still i am driven on to do this stuff

therefore i reaffirm my abhorrence of dissonance and ugliness

i scorn noise drivel gossip horror foulness stupidity in art

i cannot abide entertainment whose central theme is murder

not the detection of it

or the act of it

or the irony of it

or the apprehension n punishment of it

why would i sully my mind with this nonsense?

crime is crime

i find no entertainment in violence or killing

cops and robbers cowboys and indians goodies n baddies

what rubbish!

give me ecstatic confirmation of life

give me beauty give me radiance give me mastery

give me sadness yes but not misery

i reject miserable art

i reject art that is only angry

i reject political art ; it finds no place in my heart

i reject art with any agenda

unless its agenda be astonishment poignancy or love

i reject ugly bawling voices and ignorant words

i reject unoriginality

i reject the slaughter of innocent animals

thou shalt not kill!

did i fucking stutter?

therefore i reject war and i reject the slaughterhouse

i reject the paltry reasons proffered for them

i marvel at my gods creation

which stems not from such embarrassing notions

as the garden of eden or big bang/evolution

both so quaint and parochial

that if there is a future they will wonder at our naivete

or the idiots who thought it must be one or the other

my god is so sublime he cannot be explained by me

except to say he just IS

he is n he was n he always will be

hes a she if you like or not for who can tell?

i am limited by words

and our clumsy words

are like trying to paint a ravishing nude

with a coin on a concrete wall

we do not have the words

we do not have the minds

so i do what i do

i can only hint at it

he is my god but he is not a tame god

he does not appear in test tubes

he does not fit in some stupid old mistranslated book

i am more in contact with god than a thousand popes

for what have they created but misery strife inquisitions and complicity in pain

i reject your ritual and pomp and money

i promise you karma is waiting patiently on popes and ayatollahs that preach war

or teachers of scriptures that cast women in a bad light

because i have observed women to be the crown of creation on this world

but a lion or a lark would disagree

for the females of each species are surely beautiful accordingly

all creatures have a right to live and love

who are we to judge which may live and which may die?

who are you to tell me the god given weed i so love is wrong?

tell me did vishnu make a mistake when he created marijuana or DMT?

is the poppy or the coca leaf evil or the wonderful vine which is ayahuasca ?

is the mushroom or the cactus button an error made by god

because some warmongering profiteering WASP prick says so?

HUBRIS!

i reject their jurisdiction over my consciousness

the vegetal world was created by our loving god for us to use and discover

yes there are dangers

there are dangers in climbing his mountains

and swimming in his rivers too

so what?!

i reject destruction

i reject morbidity

i reject entertainment featuring autopsies and suchlike

i reject death metal and songs about putrefaction

i reject rap for its brutal boring misogynistic tediousness

i reject blokes drinking booze and screaming at sport on tvs in bars

i reject royal families

and ponces decorated with medals for wars they never fight in

i reject generals

and presidents who send others to death but never fight themselves

i reject barbeques

i reject cigarettes and alcohol which numb and sicken us

i reject the makers of such things growing fat on our misery

i reject countries that assassinate their own leaders

and stage phoney attacks to provoke more wars

i reject the prison industry and the caging of people

i reject the caging of birds too or anything unnecessarily

i reject hunting

i reject napoleon i reject hitler i reject bush

i embrace jesus i embrace krishna i embrace john lennon

i embrace dali i embrace picasso i embrace leonardo

i embrace poor vincent van go go

i embrace magic i reject horseracing

i embrace music i reject noise

i reject fun i embrace wonder

i reject pubs and casinos

i embrace yoga and greek myths

i embrace buddha i embrace shiva i embrace st francis of assisi

i embrace gandhi i embrace suu kyi

i am for creation

i am for the intangible the inexorable the inevitable

my songs are about spirit

my poems are about spirit

my paintings are about spirit

my bass playing is about spirit

my voice is about spirit

my daughters are about spirit

and my spirit

is about my god

and everything good i have ever done

comes from god

via spirit

so start here:

never ever eat meat!

_____________________

New Evidence Of The Resurrection …

New video of me reading the poem “Silence Falls” from my new book “The Resurrection Waltz”

at The Book House in Albany, NY. A special thanks goes out to my friends Murrow (Thom Francis/Keith Spencer) & Albany Poets for helping to create such a great night of friends & poetry.

~ R.M.

An Interview With Albany Poets :

http://albanypoets.com/2013/03/the-resurrection-waltz-the-new-book-of-poetry-from-r-m-engelhardt

Dillinger …

 

 

 

Stranger stop and wish me well,

Just say a prayer for my soul in hell.

I was a good fellow, most people said

Betrayed by a woman dressed in all red.

 

~ Unknown, Famous Alleyway Poem Found Next To

 

Where John Dillinger Was Shot & Killed.

 

Poet R.M. Engelhardt finds hope in words ~ Times Union 3/14/13

R.M. ENGELHARDT

Poet R.M. Engelhardt finds hope in words

Engelhardt expresses hope in power of language

By Amy Biancolli Published 2:11 pm, Wednesday, March 13, 2013

 

The poems of R.M. Engelhardt don’t assert faith in much. Not religion. Not a society that ignores the plight of the downtrodden while glorifying the rich.

As he writes in “Burn,” a reflection on a homeless man in winter that appears in his 13th book, “The Resurrection Waltz”: “…the george bailey in / this story has no clarence.” “It’s a Wonderful Life” this isn’t.

But the works of this longtime Albany poet holds some faith in a few things. Late-life love, for a start. (“…happiness/That came later/and not sooner“). Smoking, too; he did, after all, title his 2006 book of collected works “The Last Cigarette.” “This is actually part of who I am in general. I’m smoking now as we speak,” he said, chatting on the phone recently.

But he has faith in something else, too: poetry. In “Saint Poem,” he addresses the form itself as a carrier of grace or salvation. “Dear Poem/Saint Poem/I ask you/To please see us through yet another day,” he pleads, coming around to a state of exhausted resignation. Both the faith and the exhaustion pop up throughout “The Resurrection Waltz” (Infinity Publishing), an 82-page tract of succinctly expressed disgruntlement flecked with hope.

“Poetry is very much like a religion. I wouldn’t say my complete religion,” he said. Nevertheless, “It’s the poem that saves you. You write the poem, but it’s catharsis, and what’s what brings you into being — what makes you stable, balanced.”

Engelhardt will read and sign copies of “The Resurrection Waltz,” from 7 to 9 p.m. today at the Book House of Stuyvesant Plaza.

On April 11, he’ll kick off his School of Night open mic, to be held from 7 to 9 p.m. on the second Thursday of each month at the Pearl Street Pub/Dirty Martini Lounge. And then, on April 19, he plans to read at the open mic as part of 2013 Albany Word Fest, set to run from April 14 to 20.

He dates his interest in poetry to childhood, when he composed a myth about a forged Bronze Warrior that wowed his sixth-grade teacher. His appreciation for the power of words never waned. Now a deep-rooted fixture on the poetry landscape, Engelhardt runs open mics, edits a journal (“The Literary Rogue”) and, in 2000, founded the Albany Poets collective (http://www.albanypoets.com). A year later, he started the Word Fest.

“He’s been around for a long, long time, and he’s the one that took me under my wing when I was in high school almost 20 years ago. And he’s always trying to innovate and come up with ways to get new people involved,” said Thom Francis, current president of Albany Poets. As for Engelhardt’s writing, “It’s very personal, and yet sometimes spiritual. And you know, it runs the gamut.”

Engelhardt is not a fan of slams — open mics with a competitive format. “You have people judging the work of new poets, people who have never read before. So the problem is people are just getting out — they’re discovering their authentic voices, and they’re being judged by people. I don’t believe that poetry should be judged.”

He draws his inspiration from a variety of sources. One is the woman in his life, Kali De La Cruz, the photographer (credited as Lona Cygnus), who designed the cover for “The Resurrection Waltz.”

Another is the city of Albany, where his family goes back six generations. After a stint in the Florida Keys some years back, he returned with a newfound appreciation for Albany’s creative vibe.

“It’s the place itself,” he said. “It has a great poetry and literary scene — a great writing scene — it has a great music scene, a great arts scene. And if you can’t find inspiration in that, well, you’re in the wrong place.”

What about those cigarettes? Can someone be a poet without smoking? “If it’s for them, sure,” he said. Then he clarified: “If they’re a nonsmoking poet.”

abiancolli@timesunion.com • 518-454-5439

At a glance R.M. Engelhardt

 

http://www.timesunion.com/entertainment/article/Poet-R-M-Engelhardt-finds-hope-in-words-4351753.php

What: Reading and signing of “Resurrection Waltz,” new book by Albany poet When: 7-9 p.m. today, March 14

Where: The Book House of Stuyvesant Plaza, 1475 Western Ave. Info: 489-4761;

 

http://rmengelhardt.com

 

http://www.bookhouse.indiebound.com

“Life impairs the expression of life. If I were to live a...

“Life impairs the expression of life. If I were to live a great love, I would never be able to describe it.

I myself do not know if this I that I reveal to you in these serpentine pages really exists or if it is only an aesthetic, false conceit that I made of myself. Yes, that’s the way things are. I live myself aesthetically in another. I sculpted my life like a statue made of material different from my being. Sometimes I do not recognize myself, so external am I to myself and in so purely artistic a fashion did I use my awareness of myself. Who am I behind this unreality? I don’t know. I must be someone. And if I do not seek to live, act, or feel, it is — believe me — so that I don’t distort the established lines of my false personality. I want to be just as I wanted to be and am not. If I were to yield, I would destroy myself. I want to be a work of art, at least of the soul, since I cannot be one of the body. For that reason I sculpted myself in calm and madness and I put myself in a kiln, far from the fresh air and honest lights — where my artificiality, an absurd flower, can flourish in distant beauty.

Sometimes I think about how beautiful it would be to be able, […] my dreams, to create myself a continuous life, succeeding itself, within the flow of entire days, with imaginary guests, with created people, and to go along living, suffering, enjoying this false life. There I would suffer disasters; great joys would shower on me. And nothing of me would be real. But it would all have a proud, serious logic, all of it according to a rhythm of a voluptuous falsity, all of it taking place in a city made from my soul, lost up to the platform alongside a calm train, very far within me, very far… And all dear, inevitable, as in exterior life, but the aesthetics of the Death [?] of the Sun.”

~ Fernando Pessoa – from The Book of Disquiet

KEROUAC

Kerouac

JACK KEROUAC

12 march 1922 – 21 october 1969

A poet is a fellow who

spends his time thinking

about what it is that’s

wrong, and although

he knows he can never quite

find out what this wrong

is, he goes right on

thinking it out and writing

it down.

A poet is a blind optimist.

The world is against him for

many reasons. But the

poet persists. He believes

that he is on the right track,

no matter what any of his

fellow men say. In his

eternal search for truth, the

poet is alone.

He tries to be timeless in a

society built on time.

“Atop an underwood”

~  JACK  KEROUAC

Still Contemplating New Literary Rogue Literature … The 2nd Issue

Reblogged from The Literary Rogue:

Hello Rogues!

First of all, as the editor of this glorious new magazine I'd just like to say thank you for all of your amazing submissions and for all of the incredible poetry, art & short stories which you have sent for our second grand issue.

Currently of which we are still going thru and putting together here on The Literary Rogue website.

Read more… 70 more words

www.theliteraryrogue.com

Time is the substance from which I am made. Time is ...

 

 

Time is the substance from which I am made. Time is a river which carries me along, but I am the river; it is a tiger that devours me, but I am the tiger; it is a fire that consumes me, but I am the fire.”

~  Jorge Luis Borges