Untitled Country Review (ISSN 2152-7903), published quarterly during 2010-2013, features poetry, book reviews, photography, and short works of non-fiction. Thank you for visiting.


Showing posts with label George Ovitt. Show all posts
Showing posts with label George Ovitt. Show all posts

Issue 7 - George Ovitt




Here's How We Did It
Quemaremos todas las naves!/Quemaremos la Ășltima esencia! --Vallejo

Here’s how we did it: first we set out the tools,
Ax and hammers, crowbar and awl, a book of
Vallejo’s poems and a bucket of blood-red paint.
The house listed in the wind like a broken tree—
We broke apart the roof and let the slate tiles
Shatter on the floors below us, we smashed glass
And tore apart the ancient iron pipes: sewage
Flowed briskly downhill and into the empty street.
The walls were harder—they built things well
In those days, cinder block and plaster, footings
Deep enough to bear the weight of eighty years,
Eight decades of lives shut in or defended—take
Your pick—by mortar and the weight of the past;
But at last the thing fell by itself, worn out perhaps
By the ache of standing upright past the time
When standing upright mattered.  At midnight,
When it was over, we drank a toast to
Broken walls and ruined lives,
And, sitting on the rubble, we read
Vallejo’s elegies into the empty air.


--George Ovitt


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Issue 7 - George Ovitt





Luck


There’s the dodging a bullet kind,
As when you swerve to miss the dog
And do—and the luck encoded in you,
Limbs properly attached, brain functioning,
Ten thousand congenital diseases dodged
For now—then there’s moral luck of the
Sort that guides you home when the weather
Gets dicey—as when you could have cheated
On your wife or taken the cash or spoken the lie
And didn’t—and why you didn’t wasn’t character
Or your good heart, since you lack it and it isn’t,
But circumstance—as when, the fatal crash looming,
Your errant mind, that flapping thing, all at once
Settles down safely—but the best luck of all
Is the one that put you here to begin with—
The prerequisite to the dogs you haven’t run over,
To the face you sometimes can bear to look at,
The luck whose grace lets you cheat or not,
The one that, with luck, brings you home at last.


--George Ovitt


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