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The Countries We Live In
by David Radavich
Publisher: Main Street Rag Publishing (Oct. 2013)
92 Pages/48 Poems
ISBN: 978-1-59948-440-2
To Order: http://www.mainstreetrag.com/bookstore/product/the-countries-we-live-in
Main Street Rag Publishing
P.O. Box 690100
Charlotte, NC 28227-7001


About the Book:


The Countries We Live In. What a wonderful title. Of course it means geographical
places like America with its materialism, its politics, its inequalities. But it also
means the human body, that country we inhabit for better or worse, that aging country.
It also means the people we know and love, those whose countries we live in or who live
in ours. I love both the theme and the range of this book, its multitude of countries
all of which are crucial to our lives. Every Day the World Starts Again, the opening
poem tells us. The mystery, the complexity of life begins again, and that, David Radavich
tells us, is our task to live each day as fully as possible in those countries that are
given to us to know, to inhabit, to celebrate.

—Anthony S. Abbott, author of If Words Could Save Us 

About the Author:


David Radavich’s poetry collections include Slain Species (Court Poetry, London), By the Way: Poems 
over the Years (Buttonwood, 1998), and Greatest Hits (Pudding House, 2000). His plays have been 
performed across the U.S., including six Off-Off-Broadway, and in Europe. America Bound: An Epic for
Our Time (Plain View, 2007) narrates our nation’s history from World War II to the present, while 
Canonicals (Finishing Line, 2009) examines “love’s hours.” Middle-East Mezze (Plain View, 2011) 
explores a troubled yet enchanting part of the world. 

Radavich has published a wide range of articles on poetry and drama and has performed in such locations
as Canada, Egypt, France, Germany, Iceland, and Scotland. Winner of numerous awards, he has served as 
president of the Thomas Wolfe Society and the Charlotte Writers’ Club and is poetry editor of Deus Loci.


From the Book:


Return
by David Radavich

How could you surprise me
after all this time?

We know the routes,
the routines, even the names
of flowers and particular

birds that come
to chant in our woods,

the way time trickles
in a brook and the stones
scarcely notice

being worn
away like moss

in a storm.

Yet I don’t have a name
for this: how your voice pearls

with a friend, sun
slanting

after death,

the only time
we’ll ever know this
particular day

or why the war

brings home
casualties like words.