Brutalism: Poetry of Tank Driving
Far too seldom, I think, do we take the time to consider the poetic in our immediate surroundings. Certainly waging fierce and luminous war against insurmountable odds has a poetic quality to it, but it’s hard to appreciate in the midst of battle.
Even more seldom do we take the time to express the innate poetic qualities of our experiences, our struggles and triumphs; our joyous retributions, and our crushing despair.
But to really know the Human condition, you must not only look, but also listen. Try to hear the words and meanings behind everything that goes on around us, because although we may experience directly, we contemplate, express, and then finally understand through words.
Words are important. They mean things. They tell us things. But they can also be beautiful in and of themselves. And sometimes, although the words themselves may be ugly, the meaning conveyed can have a different beauty, hidden behind.
In architecture, this is called Brutalism; from the French ”Brut”, in this case meaning ”Raw”. The idea is using concrete for its ”raw and unpretentious honesty”, allowing form and function; the very basic construction itself, to become aesthetic – and perhaps even beautiful.
In spite of the harsh wording, I was struck by the same raw and unpretentious honesty of the following unsigned Brutalist poem. It’s not hard to see the experience behind the words, thrown out into the darkness from a pit of despair deep enough to swallow the sun.
Or perhaps it is only nighttime, and everything will be better in the morning. We don’t know, but we hope; we go to sleep with this one single hope to carry us through, and sometimes, when we wake up, we found we were right to hope.
Other times we don’t. Everything is still the same, and the words written in darkness are now there to remind us of our desperate circumstances.
But they also remind us to keep hoping for a better tomorrow. Not that there is hope; that we cannot know. But that we have hope, because if we didn’t, we wouldn’t speak out against injustice; we wouldn’t rage against unfairness and scream our last bit of rage in the face of desperation like this unsung hero poet did.
Never give up:
FUCK THE FUCKING SKILLSTAR
DISEASE OF A TANK
A BLIGHT UPON THIS EARTH