Across These Lawns

December 18, 2006

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

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.

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.

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.

(Back To Top)

The following items are excerpts from

"Rattle" issue #9

Essay                               M.L. Liebler

THE BREAD OF LIFE:

 Children and Adults: Poetry in Non Traditional Places throughout the Community.

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 early 21^st century?" And, "Why has poetry become so popular in Metro Detroit and throughout the country, especially with children, teens, seniors and adults of all ages?" 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 our 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 programs at community centers, youth programs, churches, bookstores and coffeehouses 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 own "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 play 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 was the case with The Writer's Voice & now  with Springfed Arts: Metro Detroit Writers 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 our various community centers and meeting places. 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 Springfed Arts: Metro Detroit Writers: 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 folks like John D. Lamb, 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) and others. 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/fall of 2009, we continue to expand programs throughout Metro Detroit and the state of Michigan. Our 3  major programs are Arts in The Spirit at Oakwood Hospital, The Vision of Words Non-Traditional Venues Writing Workshop Program and our various writing workshops in poetry, fiction and memoir. These programs have become widely attended literary workshop programs for both children and adults at many 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. Over a the past 20 year period, I have created and directed many new Literary Arts & Humanities Programming entitled The Crossing Borders Arts Program (writing, painting, dance, music, photography and more) to all of the then 16 Detroit area YMCAs and selected community centers through Detroit and the Tri-County area. It is amazing to think that all of this arts' programming came through the poetry renaissance that started in America and in Detroit 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 M.L. Liebler, Director of

Springfed Arts-Metro Detroit Writers at 313-577-7713 or e-mail him at MLLiebler@aol.com. You can also check The Metro Detroit Writers Home Page on the Internet at www.springfed.org or M.L. Liebler at his web site at http://www.mlliebler.com.


Two 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

 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.

The City Has Moved Too Close to the Sun
A Detroit Cento Cut-Up poem By   M.L.  Liebler

I have long said that a bad day in Detroit is better than a good day anywhere else in the world.

Maybe I'm just burned out from traveling, but in recent years, I have roamed around the world more than a few times, and these experiences have only solidified my conviction that there's no place like Detroit. I call it home because I believe we have the strongest arts community anywhere, filled with working-class poets, performers and artists who collaborate and cooperate with much mutual respect and honor.

That's why I thought Metro Times editor Kim Heron's suggestion was brilliant. He had just read a cento — a "patchwork" poem — compiled by my old friend, New York poet David Lehman, who had recently edited the Oxford Anthology of Poetry. The poem was a collection of lines plucked from other works, and Kim wondered whether such a project might be doable locally. A resounding yes. What better way to pay homage to Detroit's poets of the past, present and the future.

Reflecting on Lehman's approach, I scoured the anthology, Abandon Automobile: Detroit City Poetry 2001 (Wayne State University Press, $22.95), which I co-edited with poet Melba Joyce Boyd. In addition, I've included up-and-coming poets who have arrived on our scene since that publication.

"The City Has Moved Too Close to the Sun" is somewhat surrealistic and metaphorically abstract, but I think it paints an accurate portrait of our diverse, complex and unique community. Think of each line as a distinct poem by one of our great writers. Then, weave them together for a vibe of the city. Here is Our Detroit in words and images. —M.L. Liebler

The editor has taken some minimal liberties by adding minor punctuation, articles and prepositions so the piece flows more smoothly.

The City Has Moved Too Close to the Sun
A Detroit Cento Cut-Up poem By M.L. Liebler

The city has moved too close to the sun. ¹

In childish confusion I'd respond: ²

"There is no music." ³

At night and in dream ⁴

The moon is raw light. ⁵

I stand before it naked ⁶

Without warning ⁷

Beneath the dissipating fog ⁸

On the river front in downtown Detroit. ⁹

In a personal war of independence ¹⁰

In Motown at the Millennium, ¹¹

A spasm in the search is ¹²

Thrown, barreling towards the future ¹³

Right past happiness. The sentence ends ¹⁴

By the river. ¹⁵

While birds stand by without applauding, ¹⁶

I stalk memories ¹⁷

Of Detroiters born in the Carolinas ¹⁸

On a grain of rice ¹⁹

Behind Plexiglas weeds ²⁰

In the suffocating dusk, ²¹

While busses roar by like urban dinosaur rat-catchers. ²²

We want our city back! ²³

Detroit gave me my first America, ²⁴

Which put me firmly and finally in the world ²⁵

Like a hurricane backspin, ²⁶

In the hard stares of mannequins ²⁷

Where we had lost our voice in the suburbs,

In Conant Gardens ²⁸

Only to meet the needs of civilization ²⁹

In the center of a vacant lot ³⁰

To choke in factories. ³¹

We danced endlessly ³²

Towards the apocalypse. ³³

Paradise Valley, this once was ³⁴

Where the river slid like an eel ³⁵

And billions of footsteps once chattered here/nipped snaggles of silence ³⁶

Like rocket propelled glockenspiels — ³⁷

Blessed sounds — ³⁸

The rhythms of your dream ³⁹

That bloomed in the night garden

Of the valley. ⁴⁰

Detroit as the intimate secret of my love, ⁴¹

I understand that the current citizens have been employed ⁴²

To materialize before the eye

Of memory — your Afro-Indian features — ⁴³

Smell of salt and sea. ⁴⁴

I listened for a long time. ⁴⁵

I paint you some pictures to show people who you really are Senor Capitalist. ⁴⁶

But I knew. How could I not know? ⁴⁷

It was on TV. ⁴⁸

Artists born from persistent gray. ⁴⁹

Born on slow knives ⁵⁰

Walking towards the river ⁵¹

Pushed through a crack in earth ⁵²

Just blending in with the crowd ⁵³

Against the jagged truth — ⁵⁴

A memory in the sewers of time ⁵⁵

Calling you to a Great Reawakening ⁵⁶

In this earthly paradise

Of North America. ⁵⁷

Money and wheels — the combination makes me shiver ⁵⁸

And gaze intensely ⁵⁹

At the deserted assembly plant, ⁶⁰

Without limit in the bright and distant land, ⁶¹

In a culture of collective energies ⁶²

Against the intrusion of thieves, ⁶³

Grizzled and bleary-eyed as memories. ⁶⁴

The headlines never say good morning any more. ⁶⁵

Taste the blood in my mouth ⁶⁶

Smooooth. In syncopation to dashboard jazz ⁶⁷

Lightenin' up the blues ⁶⁸

With no money — how do we ⁶⁹

Fish off the dock

And never catch anything — ⁷⁰

The color of significant waiting. ⁷¹

Stretched over the empty lot

Embedded in frozen

Grass felled by chain saws — ⁷²

Be where real poets are: in the streets, in the shelters, in the ghetto ⁷³

Where they see Malcolm walking down Woodward ⁷⁴

Beyond the river that

Ran through the city like a leak. ⁷⁵

Sooner or later a beauty will strike, ⁷⁶

in the city spit: ⁷⁷

Strait City

City of Straits

Detroit. ⁷⁸

Alternative routes are advised —

It's midnight in the Motor City. ⁷⁹

Oh — you gotta be a walkin' Bodhisattva! ⁸⁰

I believe we exist to subvert what we believe ⁸¹

For hunger and sweetness. ⁸²

I cried out, "I believe, I believe," ⁸³

As Shadows from past ghosts soar among streetlights— ⁸⁴

Across the heavenz —

Calling r ancestorz, ⁸⁵

Prune black, with bloodshot eyes and one white tooth. ⁸⁶

"Don't be afraid," ⁸⁷

When summerstink crawls the street on its belly. ⁸⁸

What would it take to have you come here —

To ... the other side of Eight Mile ⁸⁹

Where time falls back ⁹⁰

Shooting at no one to empty the thing ⁹¹

That seems to be petrified wings of butterflies ⁹²

With the dull ends of abandonment. ⁹³

I say the earth blows out its green ⁹⁴

Bullets from the gun ⁹⁵

Let us stop this madness! ⁹⁶

Get me out of this idea ⁹⁷

Of the waxing and waning of the moon ⁹⁸

In old Coke bottles where ⁹⁹

The world once again gets its industrial passion play ¹⁰⁰

Foreigners banging at the gate ¹⁰¹

With lights behind closed eyes. ¹⁰²

West of the Belle Isle Bridge ¹⁰³

There are pinholes in the social fabric through which we see. ¹⁰⁴

I am part of the landscape

That nobody told me about — ¹⁰⁵

It wraps around me. ¹⁰⁶

We stopped singing. ¹⁰⁷

Even slave songs lost refrain. ¹⁰⁸

I trip the hood, grope about blindly in the dark. ¹⁰⁹

Some point to this house here and say, "This is where..." ¹¹⁰

Your money your heart your body

Where your mouth was. ¹¹¹

Trust Jesus, I said to myself. This is Detroit. ¹¹²

Low yellow Renaissance Towers, ¹¹³

Gum in the ashtray, ¹¹⁴

Caught in the belly of denial — ¹¹⁵

"This is where your mother and I first held you brother and sister." ¹¹⁶

It's easy being young. ¹¹⁷

What happened? ¹¹⁸

As always, I was on my own. ¹¹⁹

Where did her love go? ¹²⁰

She's moving on — ¹²¹

Her essence was extracted. ¹²²

Waking in a dream ¹²³

In a valley of rust ¹²⁴

Cold from the sun. ¹²⁵

The air smells different here. ¹²⁶

Music like water ¹²⁷

Rushing over the open wound ¹²⁸

Dissolved by sunlight ¹²⁹

In the space where my wife's wings must have been ... ¹³⁰

Now, a blizzard of absurd low stars ¹³¹

Will sleep sound — ¹³²

With a simple grin and a Sanders chocolate box. ¹³³

After they close the casket, ¹³⁴

I can still feel his heart is beating beneath
concrete ¹³⁵

Into dump-yards, into graves,
Into glutted rivers of amber ¹³⁶

As subtle as the scent of the neck rising. ¹³⁷

This is our history.
This is the way it was. ¹³⁸

I believe there is no freedom, ¹³⁹

But slant the map to suit yourself; it is we who see the land. ¹⁴⁰

Grab a shovel —

Dig!!! ¹⁴¹