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.
