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 Find us on facebook at: facebook.com/closetalking Find us on twitter at: twitter.com/closetalking You can always send us an e-mail with thoughts on this or any of our previous podcasts, as well as suggestions for future shows, at [email protected]. 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

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