Jan 4, 2017
From Kaveh Akbar's interview at The Georgia Review: https://thegeorgiareview.com/online/back-and-forth-with-kaveh-akbar/ #KavehAkbar #Writing
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From Kaveh Akbar's interview at The Georgia Review: https://thegeorgiareview.com/online/back-and-forth-with-kaveh-akbar/ #KavehAkbar #Writing
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"like a dead dog hungry for its own bones"
Orchids Are Sprouting From the Floorboards
Orchids are sprouting from the floorboards. Orchids are gushing out from the faucets. The cat mews orchids from his mouth. His whiskers are also orchids. The grass is sprouting orchids. It is becoming mostly orchids. The trees are filled with orchids. The tire swing is twirling with orchids. The sunlight on the wet cement is a white orchid. The carâs tires leave a trail of orchids. A bouquet of orchids lifts from its tailpipe. Teenagers are texting each other pictures of orchids on their phones, which are also orchids. Old men in orchid penny loafers furiously trade orchids. Mothers fill bottles with warm orchids to feed their infants, who are orchids themselves. Their coos are a kind of orchid. The clouds are all orchids. They are raining orchids. The walls are all orchids, the teapot is an orchid, the blank easel is an orchid, and this cold is an orchid. Oh, Lydia, we miss you terribly. Â
Kaveh Akbar (b. 1989) is a contemporary Iranian-American poet, and author of 'Calling a Wolf a Wolf' đş (2017). Literary critic, poet, & Harvard professor Steph Burt (b. 1971) wrote that "Akbar has what every poet needs: the power to make, from emotions others have felt, memorable language nobody has assembled before." High praise indeed, but just read 'Against Dying' (2017) and see if you disagree. Swipe for the rest of the poem, taken from poets.org. #generallygothic #gothic #poetry #poem #contemporarypoet #iranianamerican #iran #kavehakbar #stephburt #againstdying #poets.org #callingawolfawolf
#FridayReads: THE GIRL WITH THE DRAGON TATTOO by Stieg Larsson, THE ALCHEMIST by Paulo Coelho, KNITTING YARNS edited by Ann Hood, CALLING A WOLF A WOLF by Kaveh Akbar. #amreading
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bear with me it wasnât long ago I was brainless lazily pulling fireflies into my teeth chewing them into pure light so much of me then was nothing I could have fit into a sugar cube my body burned like a barnful of feathers nothing was on fire but fire was on everything the wild mustard the rotting porch chair a box of birth records eventually even scorched earth goes green though beneath it the dead might still luxuriate in their rage my ancestor was a dervish saint said to control a thick river of dark milk under his town his people believed he could have spared them a drought they ripped him to pieces like eagles tearing apart a snake immediately they were filled with remorse instead of burying him they buried a bag of goat bones and azalea my hair still carries that scent my eyes black milk and a snakeâs flicking tongue does this confuse you there are so many ways to be deceived a butcherâs thumb pressed into the scale a strange blue dress in a bathtub the slowly lengthening night I apologize I never aimed at eloquence I told my mother I wouldnât live through the year then waited for a disaster sitting cheerfully on cinder blocks pulled from a drained pond tossing peanuts to squirrels this is not the story she tells hers filled with happy myths fizzy pistons and plummy ghosts itâs true I suppose you grow to love the creatures you create some of them come out with pupils swirling others with teeth
River of Milk, Kaveh Akbar
Source: Poetry (October 2016)
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/detail/90650
Water Witches, Feathers: A Cure for Irony
Remember like 10 years ago when writers started talking about how irony is ruining everything? Our attitudes, our art, our facial hair? David Foster Wallace mightâve said it first. At a reading in southern California, I heard Tony Hoagland reference it in connection to his own work and the work of his generation of poets. Water Witches may not be Alexander Fleming, but with the 2015 album Feathers, theyâre definitely contributing to the cure.
Thereâs not one iota of irony on Feathers. Itâs heartfelt and passionate indiepop, genuine through and through. These guys are in possession of the kind of authenticity that gave Lester Bangs wet dreams. Â While Iâm referencing dead artists I have no authority to invoke as endorsers of the Water Witches sound, let me say that Walt Whitman, John Lennon, and Mr. Rogers wouldâve loved this record, too. Thatâs four dead white guys, I know, and itâs kind of passĂŠ, but hey, theyâre just trying to turn you on to some cool shit.
Ethan Bartman is the lead voice among the hearts and brains of Water Witches. Bartman wrote the best essay Iâve ever received in 12 years teaching senior honors English, and that includes the years poetic wunderkind Kaveh Akbar was turning in essays, which is saying something. Like Kaveh (like me, too, come to think of it), Ethan would exit high school to engage in various stupidities over a number of years, but here he is coming into his own as an artist â having muscled down the path thatâs always been open to him.
If âSea Moreâ doesnât sound like a Velvet Underground song, except with a tuneful singalong chorus, then I donât know what-is. And that oneâs buried on Side B. If âEagerness,â closing side A, doesnât inspire you so much you hurl yourself out your front door and run down the street screaming in ecstasy, you must be dead inside. If the title track that opens side B doesnât shake your butt at least a little bit, you mayâve been born without a soul. Water Witches are true artists in the sense that theyâve developed a sound; theyâre distinct. Iâve got nothing else that sounds quite like them, through and through, in my vinyl collection, and Iâve got a lot of records for a single parent of four kids surviving on a public school teacherâs salary.
Find out for yourself. I find it hard to believe youâll be disappointed, and if you are disappointed, donât worry about it, relax, youâre just wrong. Find info and links to the album at http://waterwitchesmusic.com/music/. Happy listening.
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