SELECTIONS BY M. L. LIEBLER

 

Across These Lawns

           For  My Beloved  St. Clair Shores

By M.L. Liebler, First Poet Laureate of St. Clair Shores

 

As a gentle breeze waifs through a summer’s afternoon

And across the green fields of Couchez Farm down towards

The water, we remember our city asleep by the Lake of St. Clair.

 

Once a lonely Township of Erin on the water—

Later, a village and later still a city

In the backyard of Detroit.

 

My city eases itself along a shoreline dotted

With baseball field vacant lots, lakefront parks,

King Trees in bloom and full of freedom

 

Where we fished the broken ice of Spring

That flowed down wind from Memorial Park

As a parade of life to Eagle Pointe’s shore and up

 

Past Blossom Heath and into the marinas of my youth.

I remember the fading ghosts of Jefferson Beach

Staggering through the fire in my childhood

 

Dreams—Sacred playground of the world’s

Largest Roller Coaster, corn dogs,

Cotton candy and  holy big band sounds

 

That enveloped twilight dancers in the breeze

From small gales that whipped the lake

Into tiny white caps that hung like clouds

 

Above the cooling waters at Nine Mile Road.

Ah— the beautiful aromas and sights of those

Long years—where wind and waves danced together

  

Over deep county ditches and smooth frog ponds.

Over  ruts along side old 12 Mile Road & Greater

Mack, and down the quiet streets of Engleside-Grossdale Park

 

My neighborhood of fish fly mornings,

Where we washed our sleep away

With the garden hoses of memory.

 

This is where we were born, and our

Parents the same. Now our children

Live here in this easy blend of nature and city

 

On these lakeside streets filled

With hope—setting sail forward

Into this new century of life.

 

 

December 18, 2006

 


The following pieces written by M. L. Liebler are excepts from:

Abandon Automobile Detroit City Poetry 2001, Wayne State University, edited by Melba Joyce Boyd & M. L. Liebler (ISBN 0-8143-2810-5)

 

Save the Frescoes That Are Us

for Edith Parker-Kerouac

 

These murals would have existed here,

in Detroit, even if Diego had never painted

Them. The sweat and labor of this city,

Along with the sacrificed blood

Of its workers, would have stained

These walls. No matter what.

 

This town, beautiful, lonely child

Broken by too much post-industrial

Hard luck, is always, once again,

Resurrected with deep convictions.

Our longevity cuts deeper than forever;

It’s far longer than Rivera’s Lenin-headed

Mural-Rock Center-Manhattan, torn

Down by those city slicker liberals in NYC

Beachhead of American culture and civilization.

 

Not here ! The politics of Detroit

Go beyond arguing fresco vs. classic,

Or any something vs. anything. Here we deal

In a culture of collective energies,

Beating union heart. Here, it’s always

Work—Not talk. We know that

Talk is cheap, but work is

Forever. We know

That building is more

Essential to our survival than politics

Is to our reality.

 

 

Mass Production

 

When we look closely inside

The tunnel of the American

Factory, we see gears turning

In disorienting prophecy, it is not

Salvation that first catches our eye.

 

Diego Rivera said "Industry is

Our Salvation!" What he dreamed

Was a much different nightmare

Of wires and gears and smoke-

Stack lightening than the burning sleep

Deep within the cavernous factories

Of our broken hearts where we are left hollow,

And alone on a cold highway

Of separation and pressing discrimination.

 

The American spirit has long been

Strangled at some untraceable point

Between the ideal and the real. Now,

We are hungry and we are waiting

For our justice to pass through

This system of mass production. The wheels

Grind slowly in a world of industrial darkness

Where the murderous dollar suffocates

Our hope with progress, and where

Our dreams twist in fitful sleep.

 

Our futures lie stricken in

Inanimate blankness as we wait

And wait, like our ancestors did,

for a change that surely moves

As slow as blood through the thick

Grease heart of oil fed machines.

 

 

Straw Boss Dream

 

Hidden within the center

Of the industrial crush

Of oil, metal bearing shavings—

The American Dream.

Drowned, breathless, stomped

Into hopelessness, strangled anger

The boiling pot of liberty blackened

By the greedy heart of elitism

And power. From a straw boss

Dream, we work to escape

The factory nightmares of lonesomeness.

Workers’ souls are cathedrals

For harboring bruised labor, broken

Hearts and endless malaise. Alone

Our fear is work

Not "fear itself." Democracies

Are open market prisons

Where we all sell ourselves

Out to those who would

Otherwise rob us blind.

 

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The following items are excerpts from

"Rattle" issue #9

Essay                               M.L. Liebler

 

 THE BREAD OF LIFE:

 -Children & Poetry in Non-Traditional Places

 

There are many of us who believe that poetry is more important to our lives and our community's survival than most people think. I have often pondered the question of importance in this particular art form that is so often placed at the lowest rung of the arts' ladder. I am continually asked, by students, interviewers, co-workers, and even poets of our community, "Why is poetry so important in the late 20th century?" And, "Why has poetry become so popular in Metro Detroit and throughout the country, especially with children and teens?" I'm not sure I know all the answers to these oft asked questions, but I have some ideas to share:

Poetry is the one art form that many of us seem to count on to see us through the troubles, struggles and desperate moments of our lives. It is a process that involves a basic set of tools: paper, pencil and emotions. Poetry is what we do when someone close to us dies, makes us angry, sad, or happy. It is what people do when they're lonely, down and out, left all alone in the big dark minus sign of the world or fighting the good fight. It's as simple and as difficult as that. For many people in Detroit, the reality of struggle for hope, prosperity and longevity have long helped to define us, sustain us and shape us through the hopeless days of layoffs, plant closings, outsourcing, and union busting in Post-Industrial America. I do not believe that this struggle is limited to Detroit or even the Midwest. This struggle rages full on in many American communities from Los Angeles to New York City. However, and through it all, it is poetry that puts us in touch with ourselves when everyone (friends, family, politicians, corporations and government) has abandoned us. Urban decay, racism and high unemployment have long burdened Metro Detroit and urban residents everywhere, yet through it all, Americans continue to fight, and get up again. Over the past ten years, poetry seems to have played a major role in re-building the American spirit, strengthening our character and providing us with the truth and vision for a new future. This phenomenon can be seen in the many area bars, cafes and coffeehouses that feature literary events, but more importantly the poetry renaissance is occurring in schools, and after school care programs at YMCAs across North America and everywhere where children live and/or spend much of their time: domestic abuse shelters, youth facilities, homeless shelters, runaway shelters, etc. In Detroit we have a world famous in-progress art project where children from throughout the city are encouraged to participate in creating and adding to the project. This in-progress piece, known as The Heidelberg Project, takes up more than one city block of abandoned houses and empty lots. It has been transformed into an ongoing art exhibit built from the materials of everyday life with liberal splashes of poetry from community children. We in Detroit see The Heidelburg Project as a contemporary living monument to poetry, art, culture, humanity and diversity. The world famous Diego Rivera's Murals in the Detroit Institute of Arts still stand as an artistic witness and historical statement of both Detroit's and America's early 20th century struggles between class and industry. If the words of famous American working class poet and activist Muriel Rukeyser are true that "The fear of poetry is an indication that we are cut off from our own reality," then by America's highly visible and accessible literary arts scene, many people, young and old, are showing no fear of our reality: past, present or future.

I first came face to face with my "fear of poetry" several years ago while visiting Chicago to do a series of poetry readings. A close friend of mine invited me to go with him to an afternoon poetry reading in The Loop. This was not an unusual offer since much of my life has been about poetry, but I didn't realize the true lesson of the word I was about to encounter. I'll never forget that spring day at Chicago's Harold Washington Cultural Center where my life and view of poetry were to be forever changed. The program was a group reading by several orphaned children who lived in a Northside orphanage and who had recently participated in a creative writing program sponsored by Poets & Writers, Inc. Each child came to the microphone to present his or her poem or song. Towards the end of the program, a child of about nine quietly and carefully walked to the microphone and read a poem that he had entitled "For My Mother." The poem poetically described how much he still deeply cared for his mother even though she had abandoned him, later to end up doing time at Cook County Jail on drug possession charges. The boy ended his poem by tearfully reciting these lines, "My mother /My mother / My mother / I'll love you / Forever." I was taken aback. Even though I had been around poetry ever since I was 7 or 8 years of age, I thought to myself in the lonely darkness of that recital hall that I really didn't know anything. Here was an orphaned child who had latched onto the art of poetry to save his life. I heard his words and I witnessed real poetry in motion for the first time. I thought to myself that if I had been an orphaned child, I might have been too caught up in the sadness, desperation, and hurt to be thinking about writing any poetry or dealing with art. But that wasn't the case for these kids. At that very moment, I then flashed back to something I had heard the great poet and novelist Alice Walker recite from one of her poems: "Poetry saved my life!" It suddenly all made sense to me. I came back to Detroit ready to take some kind of role in helping to make poetry accessible to the community. I realized that poetry was not an exclusive art form only for academics and college students. It occurred to me that the future of poetry was not in the hallowed halls of academia at all, but rather in homes, the after-school care programs, the community centers, the public libraries, the churches, the union halls and, in some cases, the streets of our nation. This is the case already with The Writer's Voice in Detroit and Writers Corp USA in Washington, D.C. I believe it will be the children and adults of our working class (urban and rural) communities who will fill the writing workshops, the local poetry readings, the museums and the art classes at YMCAs and community centers. All the intellectual people in the world couldn't put the world back together again, but poetry, art and the working class majority seem to realize that poetry offers us a clearer sense of truth and community.

These days I spend much of my time as the Director of the Arts & Humanities for the Metropolitan Detroit YMCA and The YMCA's Writer's Voice, raising funds and planning ways to start more creative writing workshops for children and adults in many non-traditional venues across the Metro Detroit area. I am blessed to have the help and support of Donald and Hilda Vest (owners and publishers of the nationally acclaimed African American Broadside Press-founded in the early 1960's by the great Dudley Randall). Together, we have developed two significant community based programs that have had a major impact on many children and adults across the Metropolitan Detroit area, and, as of the summer of 1997, we expanded the program throughout the state of Michigan. The two major programs are, The Detroit Public Library's Poet-in-Residence Summer Library Program, and The Vision of Words Non-Traditional Venues Writing Workshop Program. These two programs have become widely attended literary workshop programs for both children and adults at every City of Detroit Library, several suburban and out of state libraries, as well as literary programs at many area domestic abuse shelters, youth homes, mental health facilities, retirement homes, union halls, and at various health facilities for the terminally ill. This year The YMCA of Metropolitan Detroit will offer a new Arts & Humanities Program entitled The Crossing Borders Arts Program that will bring all of the arts (writing, painting, dance, music, photography and more) to all of the 16 Detroit area YMCAs and selected community centers. It is amazing to think that all of this arts' programming came through the poetry renaissance that started in America in 1987. The literary arts throughout the Detroit area and the entire country continue to grow and blossom in many positive ways and in many different directions. Maybe the answer to those oft asked questions can best be responded by contemplatively observing and actively participating in the many nationally available literary arts activities and programs. From the nightly open mike poetry readings at area coffeehouses and bars, to the monthly Poetry Slam in rural and urban areas across the USA, to the many different weekly poetry radio and cable television programs, poetry is reaching more people of all ages than ever before in our national history of the arts. Working class people, and children in particular, seem to profoundly understand that art is one way to discover the truth that is needed to enrich our daily lives. Poetry lives in Detroit and everywhere for the same reason that people have refused to roll over and die in Post-Industrial America. Poetry lives because it is one of the tools we now use to teach our children in their search for the truth, for justice, and for a better understanding of the realities of the every day struggle to live honest lives in progressive communities. We've learned in Detroit that more is accomplished when we work together (in the true union spirit), than when we separate ourselves from each other. Poetry, and all art, brings us closer together in a community spirit to discover who we really are. In more ways than we'll ever know, poetry is, indeed, the bread of life. Just ask the children and adults in our many city and suburban arts programs, or just ask those children of that Northside Chicago orphanage. Poetry is important because we are important, and our struggle is depicted in the language of our art.

For more information on the various art programs that are offered throughout the Detroit community call The Writer's Voice at The YMCA of Metropolitan Detroit at (313)267-5300 Extension 338 (anytime) or e-mail its director at MLLiebler@aol.com. You can also check The Writer's Voice Home Page on the Internet at http://www.ymca-artsdetroit.org. M.L. Liebler has a web site at http://www.mlliebler.com.


Two recent and excellent, highly recommended books are available on this subject: June Jordon's Poetry for the People and Ross Talarico's Spreading the Word: Poetry & The Survival of Community in America

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M.L. Liebler

 ALLEN GINSBERG'S DEAD

"Why, to write down the stuff
and people of everyday,
must poems be dressed in gold,
in old fearful stone?...
I want poems stained
by hands and everydayness."
-Pablo Neruda

 

I know Allen Ginsberg's dead,

And I want to write

A poem for him just like every-

Body else wants to do, but I can't

Help but think of my neighbor

Who too died alone, recently, in his home of

30 years, and how he was a person

Who will never have a poem

Written in his honor or to his memory.

 

He was a person who will never have

His life enshrined in sound

And symbol of verse or song.

 

I didn't know my neighbor either,

But I want to remember him

With verse and poesy just the same.

 

I want to celebrate

His life as the important treasure

He must have been as someone's

 

Husband, father, brother, friend.

I want to do this

Simply because he lived.

 

My neighbor wasn't famous,

And I probably only saw him once

Or twice in all the years that I lived

Behind his back fence.

 

But his words always made me

Amazed at the kindness of this world

When he spoke softly to me,

While he tended his garden.

 

I don't remember his words

As memorable quotes spoken

By a famous person. It was just small talk

 

Spoken in the lexicon of the backyard.

No "Howl" or "Kaddish" or

"Sunflower Sutra" to be sure,

 

But graceful words that rose

And danced over the fence,

Behind his red bricked house.

 

So, while I would really love

To write a poem for Allen Ginsberg,

Like everyone else, right now

It seems more important for me to capture

My neighbor's life, just another person

Whom I never knew.

 

I'll write it all down

In a poem that he'll never read

And that his family will never see

In print or hear at a public reading.

 

But isn't that what poetry is all about?

Images speaking to the unspeakable

In our dreams as we lie awake in our sleep?

 

And, now, because I've shared this poem

With all of you, we are forever connected

All of our bones together

Side by side in the rich graveyard

Soil of poetry and life.

 

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