Professional Poet or Care Worker?On Performance, Power, and the Rooms We Create

By Dr. Jamar "Marmi" Turner

Introduction (Opening Reflection)

I was recently approached by a more senior poet who offered advice on how I might live up to his expectations of a “professional poet.” His suggestion was simple: perform the poems—don’t read them.

Now, to be fair, performance has its place in a tradition that stretches back thousands of years. But what followed felt less like guidance and more like a narrowing—as if poetry, and the communities that hold it, were a monolith.

And that is where the rupture begins.

Because while I value performance, I have never aspired to be a “professional poet” in the way he described. Not because I lack professionalism—but because my life already embodies it differently.

My earned doctorate. My board certification. My preaching and lecturing schedule. None of these are required to be a poet. And yet they shape the kind of poet I am.

What I am arguing here is simple:

We are living in a moment where poets are professionals—but not all professionalism looks like performance.

My Black Oral Tradition

I was not raised in poetry circles.

I was raised in the oral Black tradition—a tradition that undergirds spoken word through the Black church.

My lineage sits somewhere between Saul Williams—the son of a preacher—and Malcolm X—also the son of a preacher—and the pulpit itself.

That matters.

Because it names something deeper than style. It names formation.

A tradition where voice is not just performed—it is forged. Where language is not just aesthetic—it is liberative. Where delivery is not about applause—but about awakening.

As a former pastor trained in Black sacred rhetoric—particularly through the work of Dr. Frank A. Thomas—I learned about what he described as preaching as celebration.

But celebration, in this sense, is not merely performance.

It is not simply whooping. It is not about vocal acrobatics or aesthetic climax.

It is about a communal encounter—a moment where meaning, spirit, and people converge.

And yet, within that tradition, there are more visibly performative expressions—the cadence, the musicality, the whoop.

That has its place. It has its power.

But I was not a gifted whooper.

So, like in poetry, I had to find where I landed beyond the most performative aspects of Black oral traditions.

I leaned into:

• clarity over cadence

• presence over projection

• truth over technique

So when I speak of dangerous sermons, I am not talking about sermons that perform transformation.

I am talking about:

Sermons that refuse performance for transformation.

And that has carried over into my poetry.

Stage. Pulpit. Same Work.

As Saul Williams has said, he sees the stage as his pulpit.

I follow that tradition.

I see both the stage and the pulpit as my pulpit.

These are the spaces where a post-church public theology can exist—beyond the walls, beyond the constraints, beyond the expectations that have limited what sacred expression is allowed to be.

Because for many, the problem was never the sacred.

It was the performance of it.

The Violence of Performance

We are living in a society that constantly demands performance:

• Code-switching to survive

• Posturing to appear safe

• Performing perfection under a police state

• Performing belonging under U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement

• Performing interest when disinterested

• Performing ability in an ableist world

This is not neutral.

This is exhausting.This is distressing. This is spiritually violent.

And for some of us, this is not metaphor.

It is memory.

Again, to be fair, some people find the same therapeutic and liberative effects through performance.

I have.

There was a time when I could stand behind a hidden alias, say what needed to be said, and let the words carry what I wasn’t yet ready to hold publicly. There is a kind of freedom in that—an anonymity that can create space for truth to emerge without the immediate weight of recognition.

Performance, in that sense, can be a form of protection. A form of release. A form of survival.

So this is not a dismissal of performance.

It is a refusal of compulsory performance—a refusal of the idea that one must perform in a particular way in order to be received, valued, or deemed professional.

I WILL NOT PERFORM PLANTATION

I knew I didn’t want to perform plantation anymore. The way my body was asked to labor—showing up already as someone’s nightmareand they don’t even know my name. Guided trigger fingersat my son’s first hero,my daughter’s first love. Target of a tombstone occupant,in factories where bodies lay commodities—Katrina cemetery—we floated to meet the new bodies. Another minstrel showwhere trauma porn was the slave driver. Here, I yieldedto the fuck you that lived on the dead-end street of my tongue. And the middle finger—across the street—inviting us over for dinner. I rebelled like Dizzy,like Nina— because I refused to dance on the beat of someone’s opinionthat did not first see meas star.

So when people walk into poetry spaces and are asked—again—to perform—

Some dissociate. Some shut down. Some leave.

Because performance, when demanded without care, can feel like a reenactment.

Not expression—but extraction.

On Audience and Worth

What became clear to me is that his notion of professionalism was built on an expectation of audience that did not include safety, consent, or belonging.

Instead, it reflected something more transactional.

An unspoken agreement that says:

You must perform a certain way to be worthy of the ticket price.

But I fill rooms.

And I know other artists who do too—without placing that narrow expectation on the people who gather.

Because audiences are not abstract.

They are people.

People who:

• go to church, mosque, and synagogue

• sit through lectures and presentations

• engage reading, reflection, and thought every day

  
  

And these spaces are no less powerful because they read.

In fact, performance—when overemphasized—can create a wall between you and the person you’re trying to reach.

Because maybe your audience expects performance.

But mine?

My audience expects truth. My audience expects honesty. My audience expects vulnerability.

And that is a different kind of rigor.

Dangerous Practices

One of my commitments is a dangerous practice of accessibility.

This means:

• centering story over spectacle

• prioritizing consent over expectation

• valuing presence over performance

Because not every stage is safe.

So the question is not:

How well did you perform?

But:

What kind of room did you create? How did we help each other survive today?

The Rise of ArtCare

This is where ArtCare emerges.

Not as trend—but as necessity.

Poets are now:

• chaplains

• therapists

• facilitators of healing spaces

  
  

Much like Harry Emerson Fosdick reimagined preaching for his time, poetry is being reshaped for ours.

These are not open mic rooms.

These are intentional rooms.

Rooms where:

• vulnerability is protected

• authenticity is welcomed

• humanity is centered

And sometimes the most powerful act is not performance—

It is reading plainly and honestly.

When Art Becomes Care

What happens when the profession of the artist becomes care?

Everything changes.

The stage becomes responsibility. The poem becomes relationship. The audience becomes people to be held with care.

Success is no longer applause.

It is:

• safety

• dignity

• connection

Closing Reflection

We are in a moment where people are searching for more than performance.

They are searching for truth.

Because when the house is burning, performance alone will not save us.

Final Word

When the profession of the artist becomes care, the question is no longer how well you performed—but how well you protected what was most human in the room. How well we helped each other survive?