When we began introducing ourselves across paper plates of hummus and rice crackers, I realized that, while many of us did write poetry, we were also a group of activists. Because Marie had assembled the group, and because our goal (loosely defined) was to integrate poetry into everyday spaces in New York, I assumed that everyone was a poet. The first meeting of The Poet Is In-a poetry outreach project headed by the then newly appointed New York State Poet Laureate, Marie Howe-took place on an early evening in August of 2013.

For now we saw it, the glazed wheelbarrow tipped there before us, and we felt its mysterious importance. вЂњchickens!вЂќ They boomed back to me, with visible delight. To stand before strangers and say, вЂњwater.вЂќ And for them to reply, вЂњwater.вЂќ Suddenly we had gone from joking around to engaging in this mystical, elemental conversation-one which I had never known lived inside a poem I had encountered so many times. We were all laughing now, but I pressed on, giving each enjambment its own, big reveal. вЂњSo much depends,вЂќ I began, pausing at the line break.

I announced the poemвЂ™s title, вЂњThe Red Wheelbarrow,вЂќ and heard it echoed back to me from the crowd of friends and strangers gathered there at dusk. We had gathered on that Sunday evening-the first Sunday of the month, as usual-under New York CityвЂ™s Washington Square Arch to celebrate William Carlos Williams. Stepping onto a wooden box with a crumpled piece of paper in my hand, I was already laughing.

Chessy normile