… is something I always think about–even sometimes to the point of dreaming about it. Last night was such a night. I dreamed about images within a poem and about writing my way through the images. I’ve been reading about expressionist poetry, what makes it, who made/makes it, and how it is made.
An example from the early poetry of Bertolt Brecht:
I, Bertolt Brecht…make friends with peo-
ple. And I wear
A derby on my head as others do.
I say: they’re strangely stinking animals.
And I say: no matter, I am, too.
Selden Rodman states: “For his style, Brecht drew upon the richly formalized folk balladry of Germany, upon the understatement of Chinese lyricism, upon the Bible and Protestant liturgical writings, above all on the undecorated directness of Greek drama”.
Brecht searched beyond his world to find his world.
The search for faith appears as something integral to expressionist poetry. Is artistic passion a reflection of our faith, whether we see it or not, or merely a reaction against the faith of others?
(Stay tuned for the next installment of “Poets in Space” )
Poetry is for nerds. What are poets? That is my question.
And an answer. Poetry, I would think, has to be an expression of some faith as all writing/art is a creation of a myth. Roughly, I believe that myth would be what connects us to faith and thus we must be really writing about faith… right?
A poem by Peter Viereck:
“Art, being bartender, is never drunk;
And magic that believes itself, must die…
Being absurd as well as beautiful,
Magic–like art–is hoax redeemed by awe”.
Gosh Brenda. I never thought of that. 🙂
You know, Brenda reminds me of a rock. And not a polished one. Just one that lays around. Lazy rock, do something!
I prefer to sit.
Well you two. I see we’re at a stand still.
I like it here. Good looking blog, deep thinkers, and an insane amount of books! Honestly those bookshelf pictures made me dizzy in a delightful way!
Welcome and thanks Heidi!