The Red Wheelbarrow Poets now hold their workshop every Wednesday night (except for the First Wednesday of each month when they convene at the Williams Center) from 7:00 to 9:00 P.M. at the GainVille Cafe, 17 Ames Avenue, Rutherford, NJ. The workshop is open to all. There is no cover charge, but dessert, soup, and beverages are available for purchase. For additional information, email them at email@example.com.
Paperback: 232, Price: $15
Red Wheelbarrow Poets, August 2010
Editor: Jim Klein
Managing Editor: Mark Fogarty
Managing Editor: Sondra Singer Beaulieu
Designer: Claudia Serea
Editor Advisor: John Barrale
Editor Advisor: Céline Beaulieu
Editor Advisor: George DeGregorio
William Carlos Williams Poetry Cooperative of Southern Bergen County Presents
Poetry in Rutherford
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
Featuring THE RED WHEELBARROW POETS & Celebrating the Release of the Third Edition of THE RUTHERFORD RED WHEELBARROW
Plus the work of WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS presented by JOEL LEWIS & Open Readings from the floor
This program is held at:
Williams Center for the Performing Arts
One Williams Plaza
Rutherford, NJ 07070
Tel: (201) 939-6969
Fax: (201) 939-0843
RUTHERFORD, August 20, 2010 — A remarkable collection of 42 poets connected with the Rutherford, NJ poetry revival gives voice to memorable poetry and essays in the third edition of The Rutherford Red Wheelbarrow.
Published by the Red Wheelbarrow Poets, this third annual edition of the literary journal celebrates the epic in the local and poetic voices in the American grain that so inspired William Carlos Williams, Rutherford’s hometown doctor and poet, whose liberation of the voice of the common man (and woman) in poetry was a true revolution in words during the last century.
“Dr. Williams was a one-man vortex who continues to inspire the many fine poets who live in Rutherford or come here to take part in its many poetry readings, workshops, symposia, and literary journal,” said Jim Klein, editor of the book and leader of the Red Wheelbarrow Poets.
“All of the poets in The Rutherford Red Wheelbarrow have a deep connection with the town,” said Klein. “Either they have participated in the Red Wheelbarrow Poets’ weekly poetry workshop, now in its fourth year, or the monthly readings at the Williams Center, sponsored by the William Carlos Williams Poetry Cooperative, or the monthly readings at GainVille Café hosted by the Red Wheelbarrow Poets.”
“We have scored another coup by publishing two rare and perhaps previously unpublished works by Williams,” said managing editor Mark Fogarty. “Jane Fisher, director of the Rutherford Public Library, graciously allowed me to look through the library’s Williams Collection, and we came up with a short typed memoir of Paris by the doctor and a handwritten letter and introductory fragment of a poem Williams worked on in the first decade of the 1900s.”
“Our featured poet this year, Kathy Kuenzle, is a Rutherford native now living in Providence, RI who has made a “return of the native” to Rutherford in the past couple of years,” said managing editor Sondra Singer Beaulieu. “Her exciting work comes both from her Rutherford period and her later years in Providence.” Kuenzle’s poetry has just been issued by the Rutherford-based White Chickens Press in the volume A Dress Full of Holes.
Keeping up the Williams theme, the book also features four essays on the poet, adapted from presentations made at the monthly Williams Center readings, as well as a review of a new book of Williams’ correspondence with his brother. There is also a memoir of the North Jersey poetry scene by Hoboken poet and critic Joel Lewis.
The journal will be launched on Sept. 1 at 7 PM at the Williams Center, at the Williams Poetry Cooperative reading run by poet John J. Trause and Fisher. Copies of it will be available for sale that night, and many of the poets in the journal will read from it during the evening. The Rutherford Red Wheelbarrow is also available online at Lulu.com and will be available through Amazon.com before the end of the year.
On Sunday, April 25th 2010, The Red Wheelbarrow poets read from their anthologies at The Red Harlem Readers, at the Indian Cafe in New York City.
Below are some pictures from the event, courtesy of Richard Gaffield.
Many thanks to Anne Gefell and the Series Associates and to Sondra Singer Beaulieu who hosted the event.
The Phoenix Reading Series features
Claudia Serea & George Held
Plus: Open Mic
Sunday, February 28, 2010, at 5:30 pm
65 West Broadway, New York
between Murray & Warren Streets
1, 2, 3, A, C, or E trains to Chambers Street
1 1⁄2 blocks below Chambers St
Just then, the blizzard rushes into the street
on its messenger bike,
trailing its heavy veil through the crowd.
Is this a sales offer from the store,
or is it something that will change my life, I ask,
but the snowflakes fill the tall man’s mouth
before he can answer.
Claudia Serea, Blizzard
A boat on an ocean,
something a Japanese might like.
It could build.
Serenity with complementry peril.
Because you long for me,
I’ll never sell you short.
Tomorow will be a happy day.
What a sendoff we’ll give it.
I know it’s easy to think
this is just a small part
of a dolorouus story,
but to think so
is a dog-brained istake.
Take hold, lover.
Do whatver comes to you.
It will be serene and bright.
Little if anything will ever
break up this happy time.
Check out pictures from our reading on Sunday, December 27, 2009, courtesy of Janet Kolstein and Frannie Rutherford.
Thanks, all, for coming out, despite the busy holiday traffic.
Rice and chicken breasts,
heedless if anything flat might intrude.
No one had the right
to obsolete him in such a manner.
Lacking a building supply,
the mind contrives itself of dialogue.
The city of wampum never lies
so many seashells at rest.
Fleas trade dogs.
The shore with one fisherman
needs the lone swimmer.
First published in Lips (2006/2007)
(slight modifications 2009)
Radiation has not killed the tumor —
merely stunned it —
Down city streets half-deserted at night, we walk,
my father still reeling from the effects
of the monstrous MRI.
When we come upon an old shop with the carcasses of animals
hung in mullioned windows, like an oil painting by Soutine —
flesh, flayed raw — surrendering to the everlasting bones,
my father murmurs, “Beautiful,” as if in a trance.
Suddenly, we are transported
in a Model-T spaceship
to a village where women in babushkas
are embracing live chickens.
Men in black hats and beards
are driving horse drawn carts
and a little boy, head shorn of hair, turns to me with blue topaz eyes.
And immediately, I recognize my father,
but he doesn’t know me,
doesn’t know I know him,
doesn’t know he will live in a new language,
set sail on a merchant ship and wear the uniform of a soldier.
He does know his mother loves him
and that when she is gone, he must soldier on.
The boy who will be my father inhales the steam rising from potatos roasting in gutter fires
as snowflakes lightly salt the fur collars
of the bourgeoisie
and the fur coats of alley cats.
Then, reality invades and we are once again
on a glittering Manhattan sidewalk
standing transfixed before dead meat inside a butcher shop.
And for a few moments, we don’t want to leave — want to stand there a little while longer
in the warm winter night before this magical tableau.
Looking at my father, soon to be drafted into an army of skeletons,
I feel like a desiccated leaf sinking to the bottom of a pond.
Towels, already tear-stained, are prepared for the bloodletting…
the anchor is rising from the seabed —
the iron links have rotted —
the flesh is falling away.
Radiation has not killed the tumor —
it has awakened the ancestral spirits
in my father’s memory
who radiate the path towards home.
And years later,
with my hands tapping the keyboard,
my eyes staring at the screen,
I can hear his quiet voice in my head,
reading and savoring my words.
Forgive us, we who would bring
what is alive to a still point
where it can no longer
go on living mindlessly.
That part of life which hasn’t must
throw up that which has
with a sure touch.
The only labor is just to watch
as the long breath
of something perfect unfolds.