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4.29 AVERAGE
4.29 AVERAGE
I would give this 3.5 stars. There was a lot of really excellent language and turns, but some of the stylistic choices (indents instead of breaks, lack of punctuation/end stop, use of the first line as a title) were ones that I personally am not a huge fan of. That’s not to say they aren’t good; poetry, more than any other genre to me, can be good without appealing to everyone.
I liked the themes of religion, the body, animal vs. man, and thoughts on existence. I didn’t feel as drawn to the portraits of an alcoholic, though these may be more meaningful to someone experiencing addiction. I think I would read more work by this author.
I liked the themes of religion, the body, animal vs. man, and thoughts on existence. I didn’t feel as drawn to the portraits of an alcoholic, though these may be more meaningful to someone experiencing addiction. I think I would read more work by this author.
challenging
emotional
inspiring
reflective
slow-paced
I am not a slow learner I am a quick forgetter / such erasing makes one voracious if you teach me something / beautiful I will name it quickly before it floats away
This collection. This collection is the beautiful thing I’m naming. And I hope, I hope, I hope I do not ever forget it.
didnt find it gut punching as much as chest-opening, as bloodletting
would have been able to appreciate it more if i weren't tired right now, should reread at a later date
would have been able to appreciate it more if i weren't tired right now, should reread at a later date
This is difficult to rate: at its best, the writing deserves 5 stars; mixed up as it is (as I'll describe), it is no more than 3.
Some of Akbar's lines are startlingly original and deeply beautiful; many of his poems of ideas are overwrought, full of disconnected factoids, grotesque images, and an abundance of references that, I found, take away from the meanings he is trying to convey. There is an excess of beauty and disgust that (as in The Picture of Dorian Gray) melds together and loses interest: so many images makes it difficult to find intrigue and focus on any specific one, and follow the thread of the poem to its emotional core.
I do very much believe that Akbar is a good writer; I found myself with a pencil in hand as I read, crossing out and circling pieces to find the poem I could feel; having done so, reading the book a second time in my own construction of the author's words, I found myself overcome by the sweetness and night blackness and blood and drink and animal smells that washed over me.
Might post my favourites later, if I remember.
Some of Akbar's lines are startlingly original and deeply beautiful; many of his poems of ideas are overwrought, full of disconnected factoids, grotesque images, and an abundance of references that, I found, take away from the meanings he is trying to convey. There is an excess of beauty and disgust that (as in The Picture of Dorian Gray) melds together and loses interest: so many images makes it difficult to find intrigue and focus on any specific one, and follow the thread of the poem to its emotional core.
I do very much believe that Akbar is a good writer; I found myself with a pencil in hand as I read, crossing out and circling pieces to find the poem I could feel; having done so, reading the book a second time in my own construction of the author's words, I found myself overcome by the sweetness and night blackness and blood and drink and animal smells that washed over me.
Might post my favourites later, if I remember.
Akbar’s poetry is truly poetic— the language is so beautiful and the imagery is so evocative that even when his poems deal with very heavy subjects, they always maintain a certain delicacy and lightness.
reflective
"goodbye now you mountain / you armada of flowers / you entire miserable decade in a lump in my throat / despite all our endlessly rehearsed rituals of mercy / it was you we sent on."
Im going to be honest, a major chunk of poetry, I don’t really understand. Accessibility in poetry is something I crave, so that the words are more than just something that makes a sentence for me.
This one had some incredible lines and a few whole poems(that I understood), that made me stop reading and take a few silent breaths. Really enjoyed reading it.
This one had some incredible lines and a few whole poems(that I understood), that made me stop reading and take a few silent breaths. Really enjoyed reading it.
The back of this book says Akbar's poems have appeared on PBS NewsHour, but they really should have appeared on Masterpiece Theatre.
kaveh akbar is one of those rare poets whose work immediately and seamlessly clicked with my brain and all the things that i personally love emulating in my own work. he's prone to lists (of three), always seems to be writing towards something (although never seems to shy away from looking back at what he considers ugly, unwieldy, or unready), and though the contents of his poems might at times seem small in nature, they embody the slow growth of a guileless imagination, one that refuses to ever fold in on itself. in a collection that spends so long contemplating addiction, that is the best kind of startling.
akbar is also one of those rare poets who puts out collections where no single poem lags behind. there is something new and/or alarming to discover in every poem he serves up. calling a wolf a wolf is a collection you can read in one sitting without growing bored, even if there are certain ripples or repetitions to the styles or subjects he spends his time on. he's not clumsy about his language; each poem feels painstaking, and also—my favorite—unbearably tender, like looking in on a couple embracing through an open window.
ah, his voice is so so so refreshingly gorgeous. when i try to conceptualize my feelings over this book, i keep gravitating towards simile! reading this was like—! like sinking bare feet into warm silt! like slipping naked into a bathtub of bubbles! like growing old and sleepy beneath a canopy of shivering leaves! i love it! i love everything about this collection, and i can't wait to crack open the new book he has coming next month.
some favorites (though i had to resist underlining every other stanza, i was that enthralled with his words):
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THE YEARNING!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! THE TENDERNESS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! THE SLOW SEEP OF SORROW!!!!!!!!!!!!!! YEAH!!!!!!!!
akbar is also one of those rare poets who puts out collections where no single poem lags behind. there is something new and/or alarming to discover in every poem he serves up. calling a wolf a wolf is a collection you can read in one sitting without growing bored, even if there are certain ripples or repetitions to the styles or subjects he spends his time on. he's not clumsy about his language; each poem feels painstaking, and also—my favorite—unbearably tender, like looking in on a couple embracing through an open window.
ah, his voice is so so so refreshingly gorgeous. when i try to conceptualize my feelings over this book, i keep gravitating towards simile! reading this was like—! like sinking bare feet into warm silt! like slipping naked into a bathtub of bubbles! like growing old and sleepy beneath a canopy of shivering leaves! i love it! i love everything about this collection, and i can't wait to crack open the new book he has coming next month.
some favorites (though i had to resist underlining every other stanza, i was that enthralled with his words):
I had been asleep, / safe from sad news, dreaming / of my irradiated hairless mother / pulling a thorn from the eye of a dog.
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Sometimes / you have to march all the way to Galilee / or the literal foot of God himself before you realize / you've already passed the place where / you were supposed to die. I can no longer remember / the being afraid, only that it came to an end.
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I remember him quiet / as a telescope / tiny as a Plutonian moon.
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I am a quick forgetter / such erasing makes one voracious / if you teach me something / beautiful / I will name it quickly before it floats away.
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It doesn't take much / to love a saint like me. / On a gravel road, the soft tissues / of my eye detect a snake curling around a tree branch. Because I am here / each of these things has a name.
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it is not God but the flower behind God I treasure
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I like it fine, this daily struggle to not die.
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I am glad I still exist / glad for cats and moss / and Turkish indigo / and yet / to be light upon the earth / to be steel bent around an endless black / to once again / be God's own tuning fork / and yet / and yet
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All I want is to finally / take off my cowboy hat and show you my jeweled / horns. If we slow dance I will ask you not to tug / on them, but secretly I will want that very much.
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THE YEARNING!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! THE TENDERNESS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! THE SLOW SEEP OF SORROW!!!!!!!!!!!!!! YEAH!!!!!!!!