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GV-Jim Klein book launch—Nov. 9

November 5, 2018

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NEW BOOK BY Jim Klein
The Magic Circle returns to GainVille Cafe Friday, Nov. 9 at 7 PM for the launch of Jim Klein’s new book THE PREEMBROIDERED MOMENT (Errant Pigeon Press). Musical guest will be Joe Jacovino.

The Red Wheelbarrow Poets Bring-Your-A-Game open mic with generous reading times follows. $9 includes coffee/tea and dessert.

17 Ames Ave. Rutherford, New Jersey tel. 201-507-1800.

Read excerpts, details, and advance praise at Errant Pigeon Press: https://www.errantpigeon.com/the-preembroidered-moment

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RWB Workshop Poem of the Week—October 30

November 2, 2018

Zorida Mohammed

PARKING SPIT IN SUNLIGHT 

Her father missed no chance to spit in her face.
She glared at him, speechless.

Her mother fed her money,
lots of it, on the side.

She stole from her parent’s store.
By the time she was 18,
her tiny frame had ballooned to 300lbs.

She slipped into denial.

Everything worthwhile was unreachable.
Self-loathing was the only knock she embraced.

Chaos was where she thrived.
She developed a knack for it.

She ate to tamp down something that she could not put her fingers on.
Sleeping was her 2ndfavorite thing.

She lived in her id.

She visited the Louvre several times
because it was the thing to do.
It was a listless chore
because no man was on her arm.

Forever in debt,
she learned to return the things
of fleeting happiness.

She managed to stay at 126 lbs.
for years after surgery,
but the pounds, all of it,
crept back ever so slowly.

For twenty years, she’s been picking the droplets
off her face and parking them in sunlight.

Cake and candy,
nay, sugar,
is still her daddy.

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RWB Workshop Poem of the Week—October 23

October 24, 2018

RWB Workshop Poem of the Week—October 23

Frank Rubino

PRETTY GOOD MORNING

And how do I define ‘pretty good morning?’
Picked the wilted cilantro leaves
off the cuttings in the water glass.
A bee kept approaching, hovering.

When I stepped back, it sampled, found no
pollen but then came back again, so I wondered about
the bee’s value system, how it kept getting fooled
into thinking the cilantro was a flower. It flew off.
I picked some yellow arugula leaves from the planter,
the driest ones, but all the rain lately means
the leaves aren’t seared by drought, so why yellow?

And how do I define ‘bad year?’ The year
2012. Gil, Gloria, and Dad died.
Fallen trees, pulling down lines, breaking houses:
Sandy left us without power for weeks. It was cold,
greasy and always twilight in the house.
That was the year, too, when Ryan
suffered their most acute
body dysmorphic disorder.
Oh back in that bad year 2012,
my father looked at my thirsty tomato
plants, and he advised scribing
irrigation ditches in the dirt. They had yellow
leaves like this arugula.

One finch keeps returning, the brave one
with the scruffy head. He learned I would
not hurt him and stayed faithful all week long
while I filled the seed dish, and it incited
various disputes and squabbles amongst established friends.
And some of those bird friends did not return though I poured
Kaytee Wild Finch Blend, and the Mourning Doves
declined, perhaps got tired of winning?
(They are the biggest, and they push the others away.)

Wrote my poetry. This has to be included as a good
activity, but why I value it I have never known,
as why any creature values existing over not.
Is that a cricket chirping to Bose, Satie’s Gnossienne?
Here we are in this house made of popsicle sticks.
I’ll get up. I’ll walk. I don’t know why on earth
I headed for the room I’m entering.

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WCW—Susana H. Case on November 7

October 24, 2018

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Susana H. Case’s poems use wit, high-energy cleverness, joie de vivre, and a certain daredevil sensibility to shine a light on some of life’s most harrowing rites of passage and most difficult questions. In equal parts–and often simultaneously–entertaining and devastating, these poems are as archetypal as they are personal, thoroughly riveting no matter what culture or mindset the reader or the listener may be coming from.

Please join us on Wednesday, November 7th, 2018, 7:00 PM at the William Carlos Williams Center, One Williams Plaza in Rutherford NJ.

Please note: There is an open mic with generous reading times.

You can follow everything about the Red Wheelbarrow, its events and poets at these sites:
Blog – https://redwheelbarrowpoets.wordpress.com
Facebook – https://www.facebook.com/RWBPoets Twitter – @RWBPoets.

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RWB Workshop Poem of the Week—October 2

October 5, 2018
Mary Ma

My Hair Is Long Again

Two lanes to my right,
the driver of a Nissan
rolls down their window
and flips off the car behind them,
flips off the entirety of Route 17 North.

I haven’t been alive in 6 days.

Have you ever had flashbacks?

Not memories, those are
wispy small things.
Even the strong ones aren’t sentient. They’re so willful.
They reek of choice.
They can have color, sure, but never touch.

No, touch belongs to the flashbacks.
Rug burn over and over again.
The carpet was white and clean with large loops,
I played with the loose ones,
if anything is real.

My hair is long again and I’m pulling it back because you always have to clean up after.

I can’t sleep any more or see anymore or breathe any more.
It’s so hard to stay put,
but a middle finger on
a highway
grounds me.

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RWB Workshop Poem of the Week—September 25

September 26, 2018

Della Rowland

 My River, My Flood

The Great Flood of ’37 was lore.
I heard about it from Dad,
how 16 inches of rain in 11 days, then an ice storm and a couple feet of snow
hit Evansville, helplessly tucked up on an oxbow in the Ohio.
The river climbed 19 feet above flood stage to cover 13,000 square miles,
and spread to 25 miles wide at points.
The next year, the dam and locks and levees were built
to keep the river away from the businesses and grand homes downtown
and the shacks along Pigeon Creek.

The family Sunday drives always ended at the floodwall
that stood stout against the waters’ surges,
where the entertainment was watching the river, now in its proper place.
Dad would point out second-story water lines on the McCurdy Hotel,
where coast guard cutters had docked to bring supplies to the stranded.

Dad wasn’t alive in 2018 when we had the wettest February since 1897,
and the river again jumped its banks
just four uphill blocks from his last house in Newburgh,
an antique town five miles from Evansville,
on the high cusp of the oxbow,
where I stay sometimes.
Huge tree trunks churned down stream to the gravel yards,
their roots sticking up in the urgent current, waving like drowning arms
trying to grasp onto one of the coal barges
that trudged up and down, day and night.
The brown water licked the knees of the white stone benches
on the Water Street walkway, and snuck in
the backdoor of the houses built on the view line
to snort at their sump pumps and taste fresh foundations.
I took pictures like a tourist.
I hoped like the devil the drizzle would never let up.

My flood!

A child watches out the front room window of her house,
waiting till the rain lets up to dash out and swish up and down the swollen gutters
after a summer thunderstorm has choked the street drains.
A girl runs through her Grandpa’s vineyard like a wild animal,
wet arms and hair akimbo,
ignoring her Granny’s frantic cries to come inside, to be safe from the lightening.
A high school girl dives off her boyfriend’s family boat
to swim in the muddy current, wearing a new baby blue two-piece swim suit.
Her sister takes a picture of her leaning against the boat’s rail,
jaunty cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth.
A young woman lies under the fall night on the river’s far flood plains with Bud,
who loves her and is dying of leukemia.
Four adult children pour their mother’s ashes into the Pacific.
A woman listens to her father recollect the flood of ’37
and how it tattooed its high watermark on the posh stores
and overturned Posey County farm houses.

I am held by rain, by water, by this river.

After a good month, the 2018 floodwaters in Newburgh settled down,
seeding the banks with driftwood, soggy sneakers, plastic trash.
Fancy homeowners surveyed their optimistic basements and sun decks.
Citizens once more strolled the walkway on Water Street
towing toddlers and dogs,
and teenagers on skateboards swerved between them
wearing blue tooths that drown out the river’s voice.
Then, right before Spring,
one night when the moon was full,
more snow came,
and I wanted the waters to will out once more,
to rise past the moon’s reflection
with a shared resentment for dams and locks,
for things that thwart and interrupt passage from childhood to leaving.
But the river had already gone back to its bed
with not enough snow to entice it to swell up and swallow homes
or revive its appetite for concrete.

O River!  O, wide muddy Ohio!
A little girl sits in the back seat of the family’s Buick
holding a dripping ice cream cone,
watching you flow,
believing you have flowed forever, magically,
with all your gallons.

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RWB Workshop Poem of the Week—September 18

September 21, 2018

Mark Fogarty

FOR LORI PIESTEWA, WHO LOVED AMERICA

To give her credit, Jessica Lynch said what all survivors
Say: If you’re looking for a hero, don’t look at me.
The Humvee driver, Lori Piestewa, there’s your hero.

Jessica Lynch got all the flash when we raided the hospital
To bust her out: pretty, blonde, fighting for Uncle Sam.
A little polish off the apple when the topless photos came out.
But I think someone who was captured can be a hero, too.
All soldiers take their shirts off on hot days.

I hate wars, but I don’t hate soldiers.

Technically the Hopi, where Piestewa’s people are from,
Doesn’t touch the United States. It is totally surrounded
By the Navajo Nation, both sovereign countries,
Though also part of the U.S. But Indian people
Are touched by something, some fierce love,
That makes them volunteer for our wars in huge numbers.

In the fog of war her convoy got lost. Piestewa drove the Humvee
At high speed, evading murdering fire
Until it was hit by a rocket grenade. Dying,
She was taken prisoner by the Iraqis,
Who declined to operate,
Buried her in a guilty grave behind the hospital.

Piestewa volunteered to serve after 9/11; she left two small children.
America must be great to be loved so well.

2.

Lori Piestewa didn’t make the TV news much,
But she has never been forgotten.
The Hopi and the Navajo, unfriendly neighbors,
Came together to grieve her.

The Hopi is a high place.
I drove there once, from Tuba City on the Navajo,
Where Piestewa grew up in a trailer park, and now is honorably buried.
It is like riding into the sky.
Thin, dry air. Lots of sunshine. Old ways.
Their holy men are consulted on the important things.

So naming a high place after her makes sense.
Piestewa Peak used to be known as Squaw Peak.
Ugly word, it squawks and smears.
Its definition, close as I can tell, is cunt.
We name things Cunt Mountain in our ignorance.

Instead, there is something holy there,
Something more important than a bad desert war.
Lori Piestewa soldiers on against ugliness.

Piestewa Peak is located within the city limits of Phoenix. The latest remembrance of Lori Piestewa came at the 2018 Lori Piestewa Native American Games July 20-22 in Phoenix. Its honorary chair was Jessica Lynch, who frequently comes to events where Piestewa is honored.