Bertolt Speaks 2 : Brecht Series 3
[POET’s NOTE : This is the third of five poems on Revolutionary Poet, Bertolt Brecht : Spoken Word written in Blank Verse. Brecht was one poet who understood that poetry (and theatre) need to trigger the human mind for it to expand. If this Brecht series trigger the reader somewhat, know that it aligns with Bertolt’s intentions for his mission on Earth. ]
Amnesia is absence of awareness
turning away is abiding by norms
street lamps blink to prospects dim
discretion opens, break illusions with art
let operettas interrupt emotion waves
realist perspectives are one side of coin
find the hidden, critical unravel
surrendering facades is merit answer
Clear eardrums ! Mother Globe speaks. What about us ?
touch writhing regrets, watch Lucifer’s pain
fall into shrewd solitary daring, sharing
uphold own visions, opal sacrifices
no error was made when born puny
tenacity and bravery will peel potatoes
markets continue to attract shoppers
poems and scales with keys open stages materials be tools unlocking essences
Will you smell the rosemary ?
I stand here cringing for stretching of air
happiness is still will within own grail
what has happened has happened, flowed
cling not to stagnancy, bricks shatter old
mirrors adopt all views as they revolve
steadfast woman with none sees theatrics
in newsrooms journalists write the required
I travel through vestiges of own time, seats stitched
Taste the ink ! Who speaks here ?
producing intense work to feed I write
asking merits vigorous answers, bouquets
artists meet what transparency beckons
dramatise what is left out in context
bibles unopened, unread, pages mould
what mind and throbbing together sees
in cold rooms without cheese or silver coins
unusual consequences when workers read
See them toiling at wheat fields ! Do we stand opaque still ?
every line written with conception assists
memories strike, transmuting continues
we wash the dishes waiting for summons
slips in solitary hours at edge bet
before stanza hits blank page stead
follow stark postures, practice them on own
see donkeys flash across dustbins of sorrow
writing is for here and now eternal, seats torn
Feel throbbing in rib cage ! What are we to do ?
crux at no time dies another morrow
await cold death dancing red corpuscles
make certain without lust, no tearing thrusts
Remove Blinkers. Where shall we burn them ?
_________—___________________
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