Episode #035 Waiting for the Twelfth Reimagined [SPECIAL EPISODE]

While preparing for episode 26 of Close Talking on Kaveh Akbar's Waiting for the Twelfth, Jack stumbled onto a musical interpretation of the poem. As a special Poetry Month extra, here is a recording of Jack's sung version of Waiting for the Twelfth.

Check out our episode discussing this poem, here: https://soundcloud.com/close-talking/episode-026-waiting-for-the-twelfth

For more on Akbar: www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/kaveh-akbar

To check out his collection Calling a Wolf a Wolf: www.powells.com/book/calling-a-wo…olf-9781938584671

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Waiting for the Twelfth

by Kaveh Akbar

In Shia Islam, the Twelfth Imam is said to have disappeared in the ninth century. It’s believed his return at the end of the world will deliver order from the chaos.

no one ever brings up the wages

of virtue the cost of avoiding

that which you were built

to do some men actually love

their enemies remind me to tell you

about them when you arrive and

when will that be again? I’ve already

spiced the duck and hidden

the sherry even grain has

genes that say drink this or bend

there so much like our

own I am rubbing yogurt

through my hair getting ready

for your return I read old

mail from my bababazorg

the Farsi like tea leaves

or exotic blades years

ago he melted into the tautness

of earth like a pad of butter on

turtle meat the birch

curled its tongue I was full of

credible fears today I’m full

of olives and smoke sucking

a fat red cigar and ashing on

the good lace I’m comfy

as a snake sleeping in

a silk shoe though my glasses

are foggy or maybe I just got

perfume in my eye either

way I’ll recognize you

by your heartbeat you’ll

recognize me by the green

bird in my shirt pocket if you

hurry I’ll let you hold

her her flightlessness

will mean nothing in fact

my whole house has been

cleansed entirely of

symbols a strange

call came from the west

and I understood it in

this new language I burnt

away my candles and woke the

sleeping spider resting his fangs

against my hand there will be

nothing here to distract you

from your work just

some old pears

browning in the kitchen

and a glass vase

of pink roses

humming their little songs