Verhaeren crushed rushing to board a train.
Rilke's agony pricked by a garden's thorn.
It's not the unexpected haunts us.
The source of our sorrows is what's known:
the inexorable cut-off from meaning,
how seasons turn, what openings disclose,
the vistas of departing trains,
the smallest cut that kills, amazing
how sameness changes.
I recollect O'Hara, a ruptured liver,
struck by a dune buggy.
No, it's not the unexpected. What's meant
is the devil in the flesh,
the layers of dust between index and thumb.
W. M. Rivera grew up in the Irish Channel of New Orleans. He graduated from the University of North Carolina, Chapel Hill in 1955 with a major in French language and literature. He began writing poetry early on and published a book of poems titled “At the End of Legend’s String” (Views Press,1960, Washington, DC.) . For many years he worked for ...
(Jeannette McLeod Hayes Moser,1899-1965) .
-The above ground tombs in New Orleans cemeteries are often referred to as “cities of the dead.”
Magritte stuffs it all in his pipe that's not a pipe,
Life’s daily gets us up, opening blinds,
asking questions, starting the day’s ‘why? ’
me again, stuck in inspiration’s academics.