Expressjónismi kemur í mismunandi stefnun ljóðum, listarverkum og fullt fleirra.

Listamenn: Vincent Van Gogh, Edvard Munch, Henri Matisse.

Ljóðskáld Expressjónisma: August Stramm, Ernst Stadler, Georg Trakl.

Leikritaskáld Expressjónisma: Reinhard Sorge, Georg Kaiser, Bertolt Brecht.

þetta eru þeir helstu sem tengjast mjög mikið Expressjónisma og ef þú lest um það ættu þeir allir að koma til greina.

This March night I left my house late.
The streets were stirring with the smell of spring and green seed rain,
Winds striking. Through the startled incline of houses I went far out
To the bare embankment and felt a new beat swelling towards my heart.

Young becoming was extended within every breath of air.
I listened to the strong swirls rolling in my blood.
Already ploughed, a field stretched out. Burnt into the horizons
The blue of morning’s hours, set to lead into the vast.

The locks ground on. Adventure blossomed from all distance.
Over the canal waved up by young exit winds bright tracks grew
And I drifted in their light. Destiny stood waiting in windblown stars.
In my heart lay a storming as of furled flags.

Dæmi: í ljóðinu segir hann "hvar eru þau fjöll, sem hrynja yfir mína sorg, hálsar, sem skýla minni nekt með dufti?" þarna er hann að tjá sig um tilfinningar sínar, um sína sorg.

Yielding clod lulls iron off to sleep
bloods clot the patches where they oozed
rust crumble
slashes slime
sucking lusts around decay
murder on murder
blinks
in childish eyes.

The fiery stars on snake necks
hang down on swaying towers,
the roofs scourged. And fire jumps,
like a ghost through the alley of storms.
Windows slam with force. And the walls, the old ones,
the gates are thrown open in the toothless mouth.
But the bridges fall over the abyss
and death stands outside, the old man.
But people run without knowing
blind and screaming, with swords and lances.
It echoes dully below and the bells dance,
beating loudly, torn by the winds.
The places are red and dead. And huge moons
climb over the roofs with stiff legs
to shine deep into the chamber to the feverish sleepers,
and the forehead becomes as pale as freezing linen.