W.M. Rivera

W.M. Rivera Poems

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(Jeannette McLeod Hayes Moser,1899-1965) .
-The above ground tombs in New Orleans cemeteries are often referred to as “cities of the dead.”
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Magritte stuffs it all in his pipe that's not a pipe,
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Life’s daily gets us up, opening blinds,
asking questions, starting the day’s ‘why? ’
me again, stuck in inspiration’s academics.
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“Ponder how you might describe
the indescribable, ” her email challenged.
“No color. No shape. No sequence of being.”
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Fathers come and go; mine just went it seems
long ago; blood and little else between us:
the watch unfastened from his wrist in Coyoacán
he gave to me when we first met that once…
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behind accumulating clouds this morning;
reappears; it seems seduction, then the going
under Earth again as if the word ‘indefinite’
describes reality, as if life’s rhythm
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W.M. Rivera Biography

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 and taught international adult and agricultural development, lastly at the University of Maryland from 1981-2009. Now retired from the University of Maryland, he has returned to writing poems. Rivera currently resides in College Park, MD.)

The Best Poem Of W.M. Rivera

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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.

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