The Red Wheelbarrow
By William Carlos Williams
so much depends upon
a red wheel barrow
glazed with rain water
beside the white
chickens.
BY JOELLEN COLLINS
I have enjoyed poetry from my first exposure to nursery rhymes and lullabies as a toddler in my little room in San Francisco. I have maintained my love of this form of writing for many decades. I have adjusted to the changes in style, from carefully rhymed, occasionally long, and sometimes difficult language inherent with traditionally deep poetic treatises, to current, often unrhymed, and occasionally challenging poems.
I miss teaching, especially enjoying widely different styles of literature. Poetry was not the first choice of study for many of my high school and college students. Thus, I learned to capture the attention of my English classes by first sharing the prevalence of poetic language already available in music, commercials, productions, and other places where the message is important.
Starting as a teenager, I have written many poems concerning both positive and negative subjects and consistently found solace in the intensity of creation that results. The practice always helped me understand my emotions.
I have been reviewing my years of writing as I organize this record of my existence. Well, my favorite form to read is the sonnet (I have only written one), but I enjoy almost all works I encounter. The short one here is one I love despite, or maybe because of, its brevity: as I reread it, I was struck once again by the way poetry can communicate so much in such small spaces.
One might ask why a poet would choose to write about a wheelbarrow. That may signal the odd beauty of this poet’s image. Here’s my interpretation. Wheelbarrows are traditionally used as vehicles for work projects. We know this one certainly serves a useful purpose, but what else? Why should we read this minimal sample of poetry and exalt such a plain, everyday object? I have a couple of ideas. Note the vivid red color attracting attention to this simple object: it is now noticeable — perhaps even beautiful — and then we learn it is more lovely due to the glaze shining on it from rainwater (the blessing of nature to provide for us). And then we see that it stands next to the white chickens. On any level we may visualize a colorful image reminiscent of a still-life masterpiece, a delight. But the poem also reminds us that we depend on the farms and sources of food for our daily lives. So, of course we need agriculture, but we also depend upon the beauty inherent in the simplest places. I would hope to encounter beauty wherever I am, as does the poet.
Even now I still love teaching, but I seldom have a chance. As a storyteller, I get some practice in communicating my joy at the richness of ways to experience the beauty often visible through the arts. Thanks for letting me feel a bit like a teacher again. Oh, for savoring and sharing more moments of beauty!