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  • Jimmy Broccoli

Spotlight: R.M. Engelhardt

Hi All


It's a great day to feature the work of an individual I find highly talented. Today, on the Jimmy Broccoli page and website (to be posted later), I'm am thrilled to share the poetry of R.M. Engelhardt.


I was first introduced to R.M.'s poems a few months ago - and have enjoyed everything I've read. His latest collection of poems, "R A W" (2023), by title, is an accurate description of R.M.'s verse - he "tells it like it is" - which is a quality I highly value in poetry (and in all writing).


Here is R.M. in his own words:


R.M. Engelhardt is a poet, writer & author who's work over the last 30 or so years has been published in such journals as Thunder Sandwich, Full of Crow, Rusty Truck, Writers’ Resist, Dry Land Lit, Rye Whiskey Review & many others. He currently lives & writes in Upstate NY and his new book of poetry is entitled "R A W" Poems (Published By Dead Man's Press Ink 2023)


Now Available on Amazon.com


Here is a poem by R.M. Engelhardt - and I know you'll enjoy it as much as I do! ______________ ANACHRONISM


I was there when They started slam


I was there when Mark Twain Changed his name from Sam


Long before he hated God


I was there when Rod McKuen sold A million copies Before the social media Age and Rupi came Waltzing in with her period


And once heard Lord Byron secretly Profess his love for poetry Then Shelly & then, finally worn out


Greece


Watched them bury Marlowe in a pauper’s Mass grave without his body


And then


Anoint William Shakespeare Without any words


To say


As their boat sailed off into The night under the stars For Italy with no God

Watching

Far away


Long ago


For Instance?


Sappho didn’t like The figs at the buffet And preferred oysters


And Lucan was a handsome Young man with a bowl haircut Who opened up his Veins looking for omens & words But in his final moments


Only saw blood


Screamed And then shit his toga


Realizing that Death equaled fear And not myth Or glory


As his old ex friend Nero Played the violin


Smiling


And Walt Whitman?


Never met him But I heard he had a beard And spoke of multitudes And sang a lot


Like no one had ever heard before We could have been brilliant


But I once bought Bodenheim a beer Sitting in the Village While he bitched about All the bohemians Becoming famous


And James Dean Once let me drive his Car as I told him:


(Get the brakes checked out)


Ah yes


To live To breathe To speak


Of poets & vagabonds Drunks and saints


Assholes


And child molesters


Junkies Fascists And racists


As a young Bob Dylan wrote His songs trying So hard to be a troubadour


While Dylan himself Hit the pub floor Spinning


And I heard a rumor that when Burroughs died he Awoke in a dark barren field Full of fallen, rotted apples


Looking for Neal


And not Eve


But Jack? No worries


He still went to heaven


And It looked a lot like Lowell Growing up


While Thomas Wolfe Wrote of angels


And Steinbeck Wrote about the Woes of man


Never solved Always repeating


Someone once said That time was Relative


Someone once Said that poetry


Is dead


But Like me?


It just simply Goes on


The echo Of an echo of an Echo of A broken record


Of soul Of grief Of love Of hate


Maya Had no comment Except nothing’s changed


And you can still Hear the ghost of John Lennon singing On every radio station At any time of day


The same words The same songs For the same fight


For you see I’m a very old man


Who started out As a voice only To become a memory


Some ? Knew me well


While others Saw me as a An agent of fortune


But every now & then I come back around To try again

To try to feel again

To express Something For without words We are not here We are not there We are Just missing We are nothing


Without the spirit Of ourselves


In our hearts


As Sid Vicious Sang “ I Did It My Way”


Before Walking off the stage Forever


I hope that You will remember


The poem


~ R.M. Engelhardt ©2023


Image: Photo of R.M. Engelhardt.


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