On Becoming a Fan.

Don't blame Masks.

Blame smoke.

Blame the tricky sorcery of shiny boots, capes and props.

Blame Spandexs tight grip on wrestlers thighs.

When swollen biceps of masked men slap canvas.

How like broken toys, their bodies become.

Each one proffering his limbs to the other.

And we they're spectators hooked under pains smelly spell cannot resist wanting sweat and blood.

We rouse like tiny rioters wave our fists, curse the winner, blame the winning wrestler how he radiates center stage, how he performs his own ascension up ropes, his thick arms hot and throbbing blame his left foot poised top turnbuckle, blame his hand on waist pose are the braying crowd or the thud his leg makes as he falls, hacking down on the opponent's waiting chest.

Don't blame masks.

Blame spicy pork rinds and their vendors.

Blame bikini clad women with Corona or Tecate splayed acrossed their butts and chests.

Can boys be blamed for imitating their fathers leaning in praying his man clobbers the other guy?

I blame a fourth grade shoving match with my sister.

My forehead turned hot by an early June sun.

I hadn't understood how anger like a hot spring boils at the bellies core until its hostile vapor clenched my fists.

I never tried to weigh muscle against meat, never had to throw a punch.

I blame the thin hush an audience becomes as bone tired men stumble into their musty dressing rooms, How their faces elude us.

Each match the windswept dirt under the feet of ten year old onlookers.

They're cheering for my sisters grip blame the swirl marble buttons of our school uniforms impossibly long wait for recess.

Blame the purple blooming bruise sketched by the brushstroke of her hands.

I've not thrown a punch since.

I wish I had had sparkling fabric hidden under my dress shirt.

Blame the seams of this practice persona into which we've all neatly wrapped our arms.

Blame the seamstress who sewed this mask and cut all the loose threads.

This arena is a site for unveiling my locale for loosening the strings.

Hi, my name is Nandi Comer and I'm so happy to welcome you to Michigan In Verse, where we dive into the heart and soul of poetry right here in Michigan.

Michigan has some of the best poets in the world.

And so the Library of Michigan decided to celebrate poetry by restarting a program that was dormant for decades.

After 60 years, the Library of Michigan appointed our first poet laureate, and that's me!

My main job is to educate Michiganders about the joy and power of poetry.

One of my highlights of being the Michigan poet laureate is I get to travel all over the state, both in the Upper Peninsula and the Lower Peninsula.

I meet people who love poetry just as much as I do.

In this series, you'll get to meet poets from all over the state with their own styles, rhythms and themes.

It's a wonderful time for us to explore the beauty, passion and power of poetry.

And it is so powerful.

I believe there is a poem for everyone.

I hope you find yours.

Our first poet has definitely found her voice.

Dr. Melba Joyce Boyd is the former distinguished professor of African American Studies, recently retired from Wayne State University and an award winning author of 13 books, nine of which are poetry.

Melba is a proud Detroiter and she brings her love of the city and the state of Michigan to her poems.

She is known to incorporate music with her poetry for the piece you're about to hear.

Melba collaborated with noted jazz bassist and Detroit native Marion Hayden.

We take you to the Fisher Building in the heart of Detroit for Doctor Melba Joyce Boyd.

My name is Melba Joyce Boyd, and I'm reading wavelengths inside sunsets on Lake Huron.

Red Brightens blue cools, yellow highlights, moods, defining and contouring, shades of black space enveloping a planet oscillating within a spectrum of light and sight.

Violets peak between leaves, dandelion blooms intervene between blades of grass revolting against human control of green space, illuminating the black valance of lambda reflections of sunsets sinking beneath the waterline of Lake Huron as the planet rotates indefinitely indefinitely indifferent to time and human ignorance, space frames the moon refracting rainbows while owls perch inside night hunting prey.

As we huddle around fire, illuminating a small circle to protect our vulnerability without sight of colors that shape and define life invisible in the dark Red bleeds into blue, purple fractures into lilac and green springs into trees confirming us and belief in rebirth and renewal when yellow light returns at sunrise to assure and to affirm life, Oh, man.

Melba, that poem.

Wow.

Such beautiful images Talk to me about it.

How did that come?

Come up?

How did that come out of you?

Actually.

It was it was instigated by an abstract painting by an Atlanta area painter by the name of Deanna Sirlin And I just sort of went off of some of the colors and gestures of her colors and her lines, and it seemed to melt into the sunset on Lake Huron which are fabulous as every body knows.

They're all different.

They're like snowflakes.

And then it sort of moved into the experience of being on the shoreline and communing with nature and being a part of nature.

I feel like I always want to live next to water.

But I wanted to talk a little bit more about your poetry.

There's so much music in the work that you produce, not only in the poem that you presented, but also just in other poems that I've seen And I've often even seen you perform with musicians.

Well, the truth of the matter is, in terms of performance and creativity, I was a musician before I was a writer I was always intimidated by literature.

I never thought I could be a writer until I went to university.

Even I had been encouraged by teachers.

And I found, though, that when I became an English major and I started writing that I was very much concerned and dependent on sound.

Sound is a big part of the language for me as opposed to not just that there's no no meaning or imagery, course there's a lot of imagery in it.

But for me, the sound is so much of the artistic and esthetic experience, because even when someone's listening to a poem, they may not know that particular experience, but hopefully they can enjoy the sounds that I'm sharing with them, you know, in the language.

And I've definitely seen those performance as they're so beautiful to see.

But you also talked about, you know, being mentored by writers and you have been mentored by one of the greatest writers to come out of Detroit, Michigan, Dudley Randall, who was the first poet laureate of Detroit, You were directly mentored and then went on to be his biographer.

Like, how is it that you're able to, like, balance that historical responsibility along with, you know, honoring the poetry and writing through the poems and things like that?

How are you able to balance those two things as a scholar and and a creative?

I write about poets as a poet.

I write from the inside out and not from the outside coming in or trying to put something on it.

I'm more interested in sharing an understanding of the creative process rather than the creative product.

And it was something that I felt and feel that's important.

And as a teacher, you know, and for other poets to understand, say the writing of Dudley Randall and I've written about Naomi Long Madgett I've written a biography on Frances Ellen Watkins Harper, and I want them to understand the experience, the creative experience, and to be able to appreciate the complexity of the craft.

I want them to understand that, and I want them to be able to feel that.

when I started working with Dudley Randall, which was just purely by coincidence, I had been reading all these Broadside Press books because I had been studying black poetry, you know, And so I said, Oh, I'm going to go by, and I'm an English major.

I could be an editor, right?

So I boldly just drove over to his shop and, he hired me because he really did need the help.

He his desk was just just.

[Nandi] I can Imagine.

[Melba] Totally was overwhelming It's a wonder that the big wooden table didn't just crash So we're able to you were able to not only be mentored, but you were an editor for Broadside Press, during a really rich time in literature for particularly black literature, when a lot of black authors weren't being published nationally, they could come to a place like Broadside Press and find a home for their own writing.

And I feel like there's still sort of that happening in this area of a space for black poets to find voice and to express themselves.

But I don't want to lose sight of the fact that you have brought to us today two really incredible poems that are rooted in nature.

And the next one that you're going to read is even more thinking about the the possibility of a fleeting nature.

Can you talk to us a little bit about that poem that you're going to present?

Kim Voss, who the poem is dedicated to, was my cousin and she died from breast cancer.

And in my in my sense of things, I feel that this sort of increase in cancer and increase in disease and and right now, even the pandemic, I think these are all connected to the disorder of the planet, You know, I often say that the planet is it's got the flu and everything that's happening, you know, these crazy multiple hurricanes and this problem with the starfish, and I did.

And people talking about the problems of different species traveling up the Mississippi River, I knew about that.

And then there was a concern and it'll get into Lake Michigan and then those are real issues for me.

I think it should be the number one issue for really every human being on the planet.

And a lot of the other kinds of personal concerns or things that we get caught up in.

I think if we look more at the fact that our planet is in a crises, we would find those things to be fairly, you know, fairly trivial because then it would force us to care about each other because, you know, it's like we're all on the same ship.

The Return of Violet Starfish for Kimberly Combs Voss.

Yesterday, the news reported the absence of seasonal starfish from the Pacific coastline and that Asian carp invading the Mississippi River are swimming upstream to invade Lake Michigan.

Tragic planetary metaphors, signs of reversals of the natural order.

and a marriage of brilliance that rendered a perfect child.

We cling to her balance and the afterglow of her luminous smile, taking us to joy, forcing retreats from sadness or to serious.

Even when she suffered her body's battles against the invasion of the unnatural, unrelenting disorder of disease.

Kim now resides within eternal space and in the comfort zone of grandmother love.

While we pray for faith and a future with fresh skies, clean seas, and the return of violet starfish lining the northwestern shoreline.

Our next poet knows how to take command of the stage.

Masaki Takahashi is a spoken word artist from Lansing, Michigan.

He is the founder of The Poetry Room open mic at The Robin Theater.

Masaki also served as the city of Lansing's poet laureate, where he helped to promote the works of people of color and introduced the community to the world of slam poetry.

Please welcome to the stage one of the hardest working poets around.

Masaki Takahashi.

The poem that I'm about to perform is entitled Butcher My Name As the meat clerk yells out Order up for Makeshi?

Miyakee Masocko [snaps] is it you?

Its Masaki, actually I think to myself, after I correct the pronunciation of my name Where, Do these other letters come from?

Miyaki?

Really?

and why is this person chuckling And maybe I too should find the irony hilarious If I wasnt so annoyed waiting for my order in this deli while the cashier apologizes for butchering my name at this point, Im used to it My name is the fat that holds the flavor of my homeland but still too much umami for this countrys taste So when its being chopped down by a meat cleaver mouth I correct them.

because my name its a proud wave of a tattered flag It is my address you can tell where I am from.

They say a name does not define you, but mine.

Mine gives me definition My name, is Masaki My name, is Masaki Takahashi It is the pride of mother It is the only remnants of my my father I have left My name means high bridge, flourishing tree As if my parents were prophets knowing of the troubled water I would have to encounter while trying to stay rooted in this life.

My name does not mean roadkill to their lead foot lips Speeding too fast to notice the syllables they ran over.

It is not the carcass for these vultures to pick at.

I can remember always having to fight for this name.

school yard bullies hunting me like dead meat Kids who heard my name and turned the jungle gym into a kill cage Who wouldnt let me play on the swings so I had to learn how to swing Busted lip, black eye, swollen fists I have bled for this name and this name will not submit to their slaughterhouse sensibility It will not be anglicized for resumes or changed for anyones convenience It is not appropriate to appropriate To cut down into perfect model minority pieces for their charcuterie spread acceptance My name.

It is Masaki.

It is the one that my mother gave me.

The family recipe that I am made from.

And I would much rather starve than allow anyone to just butcher my name.

Wow.

Thank you so much for that poem that we just heard.

That was really great.

And I really love it.

I think it's one of the first poems I ever heard from you.

Well, thank you for having me.

Can you tell me a little bit more about that poem?

That poem, Butcher My name is so strong.

I love the the use of this conceit, the metaphor of using the butcher and being at a deli and continuing those images.

Can you talk a little bit about, like, why it was so important to bring that theme into a poetic audience?

There are a lot of idioms, you know, you ever hear like a idiom and you just like it just sticks with your head is like, sorry, sorry to butcher your name.

It's been said to me so many times and I was like, I have to write a poem called Butcher.

That's the thing about poetry.

We write about, like is said to us and happens to us.

Yeah.

As somebody who has had my name butchered a lot, I had a lot of moments that really resonated with me.

I appreciate that.

Absolutely.

And actually, I was curious about the origins of your name.

Oh, so like my name.

It comes from two different kind of sources.

My mother, when she was in a church, one of her mentors was named Nandi, but also the original name is from the Zulu tribe in South Africa.

And my parents were really interested in African culture, so they read about the story of Shaka Zulu and his mother was named Nandi.

She was the Queen mother.

And so it also means like, great warrior and queen.

So I have a lot to live up to with that name.

I love that.

Thank you for sharing that origin.

because I've started to ask people, Hey, will you teach me your name in the sense of like, it's okay to mispronounce somebody's name because when you are learning, it's okay to make mistakes.

And I want to learn that just like the way that you taught me about the origins and the inspiration behind your name, I think that's beautiful.

So thank you for that.

Well, speaking of names, I know I hear your name all over the place.

You are the former Lansing poet laureate, which you were very great and successful with a lot of the projects that you did.

I'm curious, what is your greatest joy that you get out of poetry?

Teaching has been my favorite.

Doing workshops.

I went to this middle school in Jackson and I had a lesson plan and all of that, but it turned into an open mic.

Oh, it was so adorable.

Everybody was.

Is wanting to just say something And I tell teachers all the time.

The reason why these workshops are so exciting for students is because for the entire year, they have all this input that's given to them.

They're given all this information, information just input into them.

And then the moment you go and now you and theyre like finally I get to say something!

So may I ask you the same question as well with with the work that you done as poet laureate and your favorite part of.

That's kind of two questions, right?

Yeah.

My favorite thing that has happened to me when as poet laureate is I went into a fifth grade classroom and I was trying to explain to them what a poet laureate is, because a lot of people in Michigan just don't know the word even.

And this one student raised his hand and he said, So are you like the president of poetry?

And I like that idea.

I left thinking that I could be the poet, the president of poetry.

My favorite thing about poetry, especially writing poetry, is when I fall into, like, something strange.

Yeah.

It really means that, like, Oh, this maybe hasn't been said before.

And I feel like in my writing process, when I.

When I happen upon something that hasn't been said before, then that's where I'm excited.

Like, Oh, I could really write something beautiful now.

I love that.

I love that.

Thank you.

Well, thank you so much for coming and joining us.

And thank you so much for sharing your poetry.

I believe you're going to share another poem, right?

Yes.

Yes.

I'm really excited about that.

Can you tell us a little bit about that poem before we hear it?

It's wanting to really talk about my childhood and the way that I grew up to create more empathy.

Sometimes I go to open mics and I think some some people trauma dump.

And I think it's it's not malicious, but it is in the sense of like, we need to work on the storytelling of this aspect to make it more concise.

And I was wanting to showcase this at my open mic to say, Hey, how do we do this?

And talk about being personal and having being so vulnerable in this, but also leave out the details that aren't really needed sometimes and to make it art.

Because I often think I think it's a great place for people to share their vulnerabilities.

But if you are crying while reading it, maybe it's not really time yet.

And I felt like I was in a good spot to do that, to share such vulnerabilities of of my childhood.

The circus show, Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, children of all ages.

I present to you the greatest show on Earth.

Come gawk and glare at the carnage.

Witness the trauma.

Be amazed by the three ring circus that is my childhood Boy birthed into a family of carnies.

My father.

A disappearing act.

My mother, a cut in half beauty still stuck in a box of false promises.

My entire life, I studied to be an escapeologist from any home and anybody that tried to love me.

And this is how I learn to protect myself.

To be an illusionist, a trickster, a personality like a funhouse mirror.

It makes fun of everything it sees.

My mother wired her life savings to my aunt and uncle to be my guardians, just for me to be caught in the wires A child, having to learn how to walk a tightrope tension across continents.

My mother sent her only son to a family that couldn't have one.

It is then I become a freak show to my aunt, a constant reminder of all she could not give my uncle.

I become my uncle's favorite part of the show To him,I was all the rage.

gunpowder kindling for his flint spark desires.

He showed me how to use blame to blow things up like a marriage.

Told me to sit shotgun on carrides made my aunt sit in the back seat like the child she couldn't bear This is where I learned it is best to make myself small, found safety in being unseen.

Fear taught me to be a contortionist.

To twist myself into acceptance.

A life unstable.

Everything.

Always in that air.

So I learned to be a trapeze artist or a trapped appeasing everybody artist Rsking my life to grab onto anything.

Not too fall from the bar of approvals others have set for me.

I'm so good at this.

It has become second nature, this learned behavior.

I am my aunt's malfunctions, my uncle's fury, my mother's iron jaw I am just like my father.

Watch how I make everything that gets close to me.

Just disappear.

So when my wife leaves, I cannot blame her.

When she wants me to hold her at night I can't give what I don't have.

I can't get what I don't know I deserve.

She wants to know the secrets of my circus.

She says I'm always boarded up and I do not know what that means.

She cannot love the aftershow.

So this is the final curtain.

Me left feeling more broke than a bankrupt kissing booth.

An animal whipped into submission.

Watch how the audience claps for the beating of my childhood.

Chained to all this trauma.

I studied to be an escapeologist all of my life.

But I still can't find a way to leave.

So come one.

Come all come gawk and glare at the carnage that I have become.

Everybody loves the circus, but nobody wants to know the cruelty it takes to put on a show.