Red Wagon

by Ted Berrigan

This is Red Wagon written by Ted Berrigan.

Genres: Poetry

Paperback

Published January 1, 1976

About the author

Berrigan was born in Providence, Rhode Island, on November 15, 1934. After high school, he spent a year at Providence College before joining the U.S. Army. After three years in the Army, he finished his college studies at the University of Tulsa in Oklahoma, where he received a BA in English in 1959 and fell just short of the requirements for a M.A. in 1962. Berrigan was married to Sandy Berrigan, also a poet, and they had two children, David Berrigan and Kate Berrigan. He and his second wife, the poet Alice Notley, were active in the poetry scene in Chicago for several years, then moved to New York City, where he edited various magazines and books.

A prominent figure in the second generation of the New York School of Poets, Berrigan was peer to Jim Carroll, Anselm Hollo, Alice Notley, Ron Padgett, Anne Waldman, Bernadette Mayer, and Lewis Warsh. He collaborated with Padgett and Joe Brainard on Bean Spasms, a work significant in its rejection of traditional concepts of ownership. Though Berrigan, Padgett, and Brainard all wrote individual poems for the book, and collaborated on many others, no authors were listed for individual poems.

The poet Frank O'Hara called Berrigan's most significant publication, The Sonnets, "a fact of modern poetry." A telling reflection on the era that produced it, The Sonnets beautifully weaves together traditional elements of the Shakespearean sonnet form with the disjunctive structure and cadence of T. S. Eliot's The Waste Land and Berrigan's own literary innovations and personal experiences.

Berrigan died on July 4, 1983 at the age of 49. The cause of death was cirrhosis of the liver brought on by hepatitis.

Reviews

[Eddie Watkins · Rating 4 out of 5]

This is a talismanic book in the way it relates to my own development as a poet (who cares!?).

It was my introduction to the frivolous as art, and it showed me that writing poetry could, even should, be fun and pop oriented.

I can’t recall exactly how I first came upon it but I do know I found a copy in a library and instead of stealing it I photocopied the entire book (for free as I worked at Kinko’s at the time), even using linen resume paper for the front and back covers.

I had this photocopied copy of the book for years and years until I got a job that gave me access to a computer and I discovered how easy it was to find any book my heart desired and finally ordered my own first edition hardback copy.

By the time I had my own actual copy the talismanic power of the book (as it related to my own poetry (who the fuck cares!?) had diminished, but there was tremendous pleaser nonetheless in being able to hold and read an actual copy.

I kept the old photocopied copy for a few years because its talismanic powers still at least existed in my memory, as a living link (as it were) to my own early years as I developed my powers of poetic frivolity, back when Ted Berrigan helped to teach me the inherent power and art of individual words, whether in context or not.

There is a joy in life and of a life in words in these pages, but it is a joy that feels a bit forced, which does not taint it but instead adds notes of counter-cultural defiance and even heroism.

Back when my photocopied copy was talismanic I had a powerful urge to make of poems more than just words on a page. I wanted poems to be physical objects because in my mind many of the poems I like are physical objects, like 3-dimensional mental constructions. I suspect many people will not understand this concept.

This urge manifested in my writing out talismanic poems on pieces of thick cardstock. I had (and still have) a stack of these simple poem objects and would often hold them in my hands, shuffling them, feeling their texture and weight. It was a slightly weird (perhaps?) but satisfying poetry nerd hobby.

One of these poem objects was a hand transcribed copy (on the backside of an old cardboard carnival sign) of a poem from this collection titled Crystal. One day I was lighting a stick of incense with a match and as I swiped the match head across the lighting strip the match flew out of my hand and landed on Berrigan’s poem object, still lit. I immediately brushed it off, but not before it left a small brown burn mark. The small brown burn mark was right between the two words “fire” and “flares” in the 17th line of the poem.

The full line: Now a tiny fire flares out front the fireplace. Chesterfield

This was a very significant event in my own history as a poet (who gives a goddamn goddamn it!?) as I read it as a sign that I was meant to write poems. The fact that the poem’s title was Crystal contributed no small part to my New-Agey interpretation of the event.

That was 21 years ago and since that time I have remained steadfast in my serious pursuit of poetic frivolity.

A Mongolian Sausage is a long stocking that has holes punched in it and that is filled with shit.

I will now swing a Mongolian Sausage over my head in circles until everyone goes home.

[Edmund · Rating 5 out of 5]

I love this book for many reasons, none of which are any of your business.

[Paolo · Rating 4 out of 5]

SHE

She is always two blue eyes
She is never lost in sleep
All her dreams are light & air
They sometimes melt the sun
She makes me smile, or
She makes me cry, she
Makes me laugh, and I talk to her
With really nothing particularly to say.

- Ted Berrigan

[Sabrina Calle · Rating 5 out of 5]

man.