#martyr!

[galina]

The best book I’ve read so far this year is Martyr! by Kaveh Akbar.

When poets write novels I always get very excited because they enter into their contract with words in a different way to other writers, with a certain level of distrust of language’s abilities, with an understanding of the disappointing paradox in metaphors, and with a playful abandon for convention.

This book is a great example of all of those things. It tore me open so many times and put me back together again, too. It’s got everything — family, identity, death, nationality, history, death, art, politics, death, love, war, did I mention death, and dreams where the dead speak to cartoon characters

#studyblr #studygram #studyspo #bookblr #books #booklr #bookworm #booktok #books and reading #bookish #bookstagram #book review #kaveh akbar #picador #martyr! #minimal

[dk-thrive]

"Grace to live at all—none of us did anything to deserve it. Being born. We spend our lives trying to figure out how to pay back the debt of being. And to whom we might pay it."

— Kaveh Akbar, Martyr!: A Novel (Knopf, January 23, 2024)

#grace #gratitude #miracle #grateful #kaveh akbar #martyr!

[aaknopf]

Martyr!, the poet Kaveh Akbar’s propulsive debut novel, tells the tale of Cyrus Shams, the son of a lost mother (victim of a 1988 U. S. Naval snafu in the Persian Gulf that killed 290 people on a commercial airliner) and the long-suffering father who emigrated to Fort Wayne, IN with his baby boy. We meet Cyrus as a student of poetry at Keady University and a reformed addict. In this excerpt, he’s at the local open mic with his friends; we also share one of the poems from Cyrus’s bookofmartyrs.docx, helpfully supplied by Akbar, the poet behind the fictional poet.

. .

The Naples Tuesday night open mic had become a mainstay of Cyrus and Zee’s friendship. It was a small affair, not much to distinguish it from the myriad other open mics happening elsewhere in the country—except this was their open mic, their organic community of beautiful weirdos—old hippies singing Pete Seeger, trans kids rapping about liberation, passionate spoken-word performances by nurses and teenagers and teachers and cooks. As with any campus open mic, there was the occasional frat dude coming to play sets of smirky acoustic rap covers and overearnest breakup narratives. But even they were welcome, and mostly it felt like a safe little oasis of amongness in the relative desert of their Indiana college town, a healthy way to spend the time they were no longer using to get drunk or high.   Naturally, Naples didn’t have its own sound equipment, so Zee would usually show up fifteen minutes early with his beat-up Yamaha PA to set up for Sad James, who hosted every week. Sad James was called this to distinguish him from DJ James, a guy who cycled nightly through the campus bars. DJ James was not a particularly interesting artist, but he was well-known enough in the campus community to warrant Sad James’s nominative prefix, which began as a joke but somehow stuck, and to which Sad James had grown accustomed with good humor, even occasionally doing small shows under the name. Sad James was a quiet white guy, long blond hair framing his lightly stubbled face, who played intensely solemn electronic songs, punctuated by sparse circuit-bent blips and bloops, and over time at Keady, he had become one of Zee and Cyrus’s most resilient and trusted friends.   On this night, Cyrus had read a poem early, an older experimental piece from a series where he’d been assigning words to each digit 0–9, then using an Excel document to generate a lyric out of those words as the digits appeared in the Fibonacci sequence: “lips sweat teeth lips spread teeth lips drip deep deep sweat skin,” etc. It was bad, but he loved reading them out loud, the rhythms and repeti­tions and weird little riffs that emerged. Sad James did an older piece where the lyrics “burning with the human stain / she dries up, dust in the rain” were repeated and modulated over molten beeps from an old circuit-bent Game Boy. Zee—a drummer in his free time who idolized J Dilla and John Bonham and Max Roach and Zach Hill in equal measure—hadn’t brought anything of his own to perform that evening, but did have a little bongo to help accompany any acoustic acts who wanted it.   On the patio listening to Cyrus talk about his new project, Zee said, “I could see it being a bunch of different poems in the voices of all your different historical martyr obsessions?” Then to Sad James, Zee added, “Cyrus has been plastering our apartment with these big black-and-white printouts of all their terrifying faces. Bobby Sands in our kitchen, Joan of Arc in our hallway.”   Sad James made his eyes get big.   “I just like having them present,” Cyrus said, slumping into his chair. He didn’t add that he’d been reading about them in the library, his mystic martyrs, that he’d taped a great grid of their grayscale printed faces above his bed, half believing it would work like those tapes that promised to teach you Spanish while you slept, that some­how their lived wisdoms would pass into him as he dreamt. Among the Tank Man, Bobby Sands, Falconetti as Joan of Arc, Cyrus had a picture of his parents’ wedding day. His mother, seated in a sleeved white dress, smiling tightly at the camera while his father, in a tacky gray tux, sat grinning next to her holding her hand. Above their heads, a group of attendees held an ornate white sheet. It was the only picture of his mother he had. Next to his mother, his father beamed, bright in a way that made it seem he was radiating the light himself.   Zee went on: “So you could write a poem where Joan of Arc is like, ‘Wow, this fire is so hot’ or whatever. And then a poem where Hussain is like, ‘Wow, sucks that I wouldn’t kneel.’ You know what I mean?”   Cyrus laughed.   “I tried some of that! But see, that’s where it gets corny. What could I possibly say about the martyrdom of Hussain or Joan of Arc or whoever that hasn’t already been said? Or that’s worth saying?”   Sad James asked who Hussain was and Zee quickly explained the trial in the desert, Hussain’s refusing to kneel and being killed for it.   “You know, Hussain’s head is supposedly still buried in Cairo?” Zee said, smiling. “Cairo, which is in which country again?”   Cyrus rolled his eyes at his friend, who was, as Cyrus liked to remind him when he got too greatest-ancient-civilization-on-earth about things, only half Egyptian.   “Damn,” Sad James said. “I would’ve just kneeled and crossed my fingers behind my back. Who am I trying to impress? Later I could call take-backsies. I’d just say I tripped and landed on my knees or something.”   The three friends laughed. Justine, an open mic regular whose Blonde on Blonde–era pea-coat-and-harmonica-rack Bob Dylan act was a mainstay of the open mic, came outside to ask Zee for a cigarette. He obliged her with an American Spirit Yellow, which she lit around the corner as she began speaking into her cell phone.   In moments like these Cyrus still sometimes felt like asking to bum one too—he’d been a pack-and-a-half-a-day smoker before he got sober, and continued his habit even after he’d kicked everything else. “Quit things in the order they’re killing you,” his sponsor, Gabe, told him once. After a year clean he turned his attention to cigarettes, which he finally managed to kick completely by tapering: from one and a half packs a day to a pack to half a pack to five cigarettes and so on until he was just smoking a single cigarette every few days and then, none at all. He could probably get away with bumming the occasional cigarette now and again, but in his mind he was saving that for something momentous: his final moments lying in the grass dying from a gunshot wound, or walking in slow motion away from a burning building.   “So what are you thinking then? A novel? Or like . . . a poetic mar­tyr field guide?” asked Zee.   “I’m really not sure yet. But my whole life I’ve thought about my mom on that flight, how meaningless her death was. Truly literally like, meaningless. Without meaning. The difference between 290 dead and 289. It’s actuarial. Not even tragic, you know? So was she a martyr? There has to be a definition of the word that can accom­modate her. That’s what I’m after.”

More on this book and author:

Learn more about Martyr! by Kaveh Akbar.

Browse Kaveh Akbar's poetry collections and follow Kaveh on Instagram @kavehakbar.kavehakbar.

Visit our Tumblr to peruse poems, audio recordings, and broadsides in the Knopf poem-a-day series.

To share the poem-a-day experience with friends, pass along this link.

#poetry #poetry month #national poetry month #Knopfpoetry #Knopf Poetry #Kaveh Akbar #AkbarAudio #Arian Moayed #MoayedAudio #MartyrANovel #Martyr! #Martyr! A Novel #Excerpt

[brynnasaurus]

This passage from Kaveh Akbar's Martyr! (which I've really been loving, in case anyone's looking for a book recommendation) stopped me dead in my tracks, and figured some of you fine folks here on tumblr dot com might relate as well

#relatable content! #kaveh akbar #martyr! #books

[jakxdafreak]

Here's a log now! A REAL Log, one of an AU known as MARTYR. It's a oneshot, with only two characters at the moment, but a nice story with a bit of HUB influence. Imma copy paste stuff from Discord as a transfer of notes, so yayyy. TW// S/H MENTION scattered throughout the log (I don't know how to spoiler info in Tumblr kms-)

This is Goat Man. Or MARTYR/M!Azazel. He's from Raph (rthe_artist).

And he's a Oneshot character, which means that he's in a Dimension with not enough developed characters to warrant a fully developed AU.

He's a hemomancer angel, so he uses blood magic and whatnot.

However, Michael chained him to a mountain and tasked him with "purifying the city" with his blood, so he had to harvest his own blood for rituals and whatnot to do around the city below the mountain.

And thus was the Angel's life, tasked with cutting his own flesh to harvest to blood for Michael.

In reality, Michael didn't even need the blood. He just wanted Azazel too weak to go against the City.

And he sorta gave Azazel this scapegoat complex that he HAD to do this because this was his purpose, and without this, he'd be useless.

And due to the chain on his leg and his malformed hoof, he BELIEVES himself unable to escape.

The chain is somewhat true. It's cursed in such a way where Azazel can't break through it. But he's strong enough to resist. he just... doesn't.

And so for many years, maybe even decades, Azazel sat there, at the top of the mountain

No food, no water, no interaction other than Michael berating his every move, cutting his flesh so he can harvest his own blood for rituals he doesn't even know of, or even exist. ____________________________________ Sometime ago, the HUB got access to Raph's Realm. This led to the MAINTAINRs going in to schout the area.

Dio and Gecc (the lil gecko guy handing Azazel the bandage) went into MARTYR for an expansion check because Raph's OCs (Realm) is relatively new, so they have to explore it.

And Dio just decided... In the most "Dio" fashion ever ... To climb the damn mountain and meet Azazel up there.

And just give him a sandwich. And just chat with him.

The only semblance of kindness Azazel has seen in many years.

And Dio sorta... goads Azazel to try and resist Michael for once.

That maybe... there's a life outside this prison here that he should try and strive for.

I tend not to interject with comics, but I just particularly like this portion of it. Cause Azazel's COVERED in wounds, like everywhere in his body there's healing and fresh cuts. He's never had anyone tend to him, he doesn't even tend to himself since he's the one cutting his own flesh to get the blood.

But this random ass dude hands him a sandwich. And chats with him for a bit. And this stupid ass gecko hands him a bandaid that WILL IN NO WAY COVER ANY OF HIS WOUNDS.

They don't know anything about Azazel yet they choose to help. But it's just this... kind gesture. This small thing from these two strangers.

It fills him with something. Hope.

Resistance. __________________________

When Dio talks to Azazel, he mentions how the chain binds him to the mountain, so Dio says that he can find something to break it!

Dio goes down the mountain, and he's gone for quite a while, but Azazel waits patiently still.

He hears the clanking of the ladder, his ears perk up

But it's not Dio.

It's Michael.

He's come to collect the city's sacrificial blood once more.

However, Azazel, wrought with conflict and emboldened by Dio's words before... He decides to fight back, if not a little.

Since he's a Hemomancer, he can use blood to his advantage. He begins controlling the blood from his body and from the surrounding ground into these construct weapons. A However, Michael's words are sharp, and his tongue is laced with silver and venom. He begins barking at the angel, whittling away at his fortitude.

And Dio appears, tired from the climb up the mountain, to meet the both of them in a conflict. Michael begins to bark his dogma at Dio. Telling him how Azazel is this useless, corrupt monster who deserves this fate, who NEEDS this fate. He needs to suffer. It's his purpose, it's his life. How DARE he challenge what he was MADE for. It wears at Azazel's mind, he begins to falter.

And it seems... for a fleeting moment, Dio agrees. And it seems to break Azazel's resolve. The constructs he made of blood fall back onto the earth in great splashes of crimson filth. It seems Michael has won. But Dio's a bit of a jackass. He mocks Michael a bit. Lifts the axe he brought up the mountain over his shoulder...

And breaks the chain holding Azazel in two. Thus breaking the seal keeping him on the mountain. He's free.

Dio goads Azazel to fight back, something the angel had been waiting for years to do. Azazel turns around towards the terrified priest. Without his cunning word, he looks weak, pathetic. The blood on the ground begins to shake and reform, pool into monstrous construct formations once more. And well. We know how this ends.

Azazel and Michael fly off the mountaintop. And Dio needs to rest before getting off the mountain. Because he's a sick boi and exercise is hard.

__________________ Once Dio climbs off the mountain, he sees Azazel sitting near the end of the ladder. Seems he did decide to stay and talk to Dio once last time.

Turns out, he bought himself some time to escape the City grounds by ripping Michael into five pieces and throwing them across the forest, so it'd take him much longer to revive. And once he would be revived, Azazel would be long gone.

It seems he's lost however, because he had never expected himself to be free from the chains of the mountain. Now that he was actually at that point... he had no idea what to do next. Dio, thinking back on the conversations they had on the top, realized something. Azazel had mentioned before that he used to be a farmer before he was captured by Michael. Maybe he could get back to it again? Dio suggests it, and Azazel... seems to take it!

And with that, Dio and Gecc disappear, not even giving Azazel his name. ______________ A week later, during a maintenance check, MN!Airin (an OC from Aron) recorded a report showing Azazel in a much healthier state than before. He had gone very far away from the City and the Mountain and now resides in a large plot of farmland he now tends to. He also seems to have recovered much of his body mass, and his wounds have healed except for around his wrists, which he seems to have roughly bandaged. Seems he's still using hemomancy to create tools that he can use to farm like he used to do back then. Old habits die hard. And now he lives in peace!... for now. Happy ending for the Goat Man. :>c This Oneshot AU was fun, I liked it! Now I can keep it in the logbooks yayyyy.

#TW S/H mention #Raph OC #Jakx OC #Aron OC #MARTYR! #Oneshot AU #M!Azazel #E!Dio #Gecc #MN!Airin #AU-Log #First log... for now. Whoo! That was fun. Long tho.

[seab]

I have heard people say smell is the sense most attached to memory, but for me it is always language, if language can be thought of as a sense, which of course it can be. Compared to even the dullest dog humans can smell nothing. But compare us with—what?—a monkey who can say “apple” with her hands?—and we are the gods of language, everything else just chirping and burping. And how fitting, too, that our superpower as a species, the source of our divinity, stems from such a broken invention.

—Kaveh Akbar, Martyr!

#kaveh akbar #martyr! #language #literature #quotes #martyr

[eloquentmoon]

"He wanted, acutely in that moment, to be not-alive. Not to be dead, not to kill himself, but to have the burden of living lifted from his shoulders."

- Kaveh Akbar, MARTYR! (2024)

#wow what a book and a quote #kaveh akbar #martyr! #2024 #debut #literature #quote #depression

[kropotkindersurprise]

February 28, 2024 - American military veterans burn their uniforms calling for a free Palestine, at a vigil for Aaron Bushnell in Portland, Oregon. [source]

#aaron bushnell #free palestine #palestine #solidarity #veterans #usa #martyrs #memorial #video #2024 #portland #oregon #genocide #occupation #israel #apartheid #military #anti-imperialism #anti-militarism

[27-moons]

VIA Palestinian Youth Movement

Walid Daqqah left the world today due to medical neglect by Occupation Forces in Israeli prison 7/4/2024

#walid daqqah #glory to the martyrs #palestine #israel

[bakedbeanchan]

random fire nation diplomat #492 will never understand the complex and fucked up relationship between the water siblings like I do 🙄

#and they were forced to raise each other... #baked bean originals #avatar the last airbender #atla #katara #sokka #sorry hakoda i don't think you count #couldn't have you just left one dude back home instead of giving your 13 yr old kid a martyr complex #cmon man #i don't think he's a bad dad but that was not the best decision

[dk-thrive]

What I want to say is that I was happy. Not always, not even mostly. But I did know real, deep joy. Maybe everyone gets a certain amount to use up over a lifetime, and I just used my lifetime’s allotment especially quickly... But I don’t think it was a tragedy, my life. Tragedies are relentless. Nobody could ask for more than what I’ve had.

— Kaveh Akbar, Martyr!: A Novel (Knopf, January 23, 2024)

#cancer #kaveh akbar #happy #unhappy #joy #tragedy #gratitude #Martyr!

[aaknopf]

#poetry #knopf #poem-a-day #knopf poetry #national poetry month #poetry month #knopfpoetry #poem #poetrybroadside #Martyr! #Kaveh Akbar #Cyrus Shams

[chaiaurchaandni]

does throwing a stone at a tank

make a child a terrorist?

is terrorism about resisting oppression? is terrorism about demanding your birthright to live safely and peacefully in your homeland? is terrorism about hating the killers of your family, your friends and your people?

accusations of terrorism are often weaponized against those fighting for liberation and sovereignty and dignity. the french settlers called the algerians terrorists. the indian government calls the kashmiris terrorists. the pakistani army calls pashtun activists terrorists. the turkish government calls the kurds terrorists. apartheid south africa called nelson mandela a terrorist. americans called the vietcong and the black panthers terrorists. the israelis call the palestinians terrorists. all oppressive regimes are connected. all oppressed people are connected. injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere.

#fares odeh #this is the justification that israel uses to imprison and kill palestinian children #accusations of terrorism are often weaponized against poc who fight for liberation #'wider impact: after odeh's picture became famous israeli tanks were told to start shooting at stone throwers' absolutely insane #free palestine #palestine #gaza #from the river to the sea palestine will be free #glory to the martyrs #long live palestine #death to israel #long live the resistance #save the children #palestinian resistance

[opulentquotes]

She was looking at herself in the little gold mirror we had hanging near the entrance. It was something I’d come to love about her, in time. It wasn’t narcissism, the way she was always looking at herself. I recognized later there was a kind of wonder in it, running her fingers over her smile lines, the skin of her forehead, as if to say, “Where did you come from? This skin, what a strange envelope!

Martyr! by Kaveh Akbar

#Kaveh Akbar #Martyr! #Quotes #lit #literature

[mantaraymax]

personal review: this book stabbed me and i died and then it frankensteined me back to life

#five stars #martyr!

[judgingbooksbycovers]

Martyr!

By Kaveh Akbar.

#Martyr! #Kaveh Akbar #books #book covers