By Molly Brodak
The language of Molly Brodak’s first full-length assortment, A Little heart of the Night, is ever moving, brightly sonic, and disarming whereas exploring the margin among nature and paintings, darkness and sweetness, goals and awakenings. As echoed in a single epigraph from Emerson, those poems seize “the distinctive and the titanic” of realization in excessive lyric verse with an angular and virtually clinical sensitivity. here's a speaker rationale on discovery: “Oh entire international, we elect / another.”
This award-winning assortment simmers with wit as Brodak confronts tragedy, youth losses, transcendent love, and the query of paintings itself. Tinged with a suffering—“I was once the littlest wastebasket. / i used to be my very own church. other than— / scared, scared”—that rises above own sorrow, her fierce and painterly poems redefine nature and paintings and what exists among: “Lately, there's spangled coloration in my house / and a chilly apple orchard to have a tendency as opposed to consciousness.” As Reginald Shepherd acknowledged in regards to the poems in Brodak’s first assortment, the chapbook Instructions for a Painting, her global is “‘small adequate / to sing in all directions,’ and massive sufficient to take us there.”
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Extra info for A little middle of the night
These still-life things become the back of death. The lilies he has sent. This is the peel away part. ( 19 ) We want the Exact and the Vast; we want our Dreams and our Mathematics . . — R. W. Emerson Mild Peril I might find a blueblack sky when I’m ready to feel all the moments, not just the sleazy important ones. To uncoil the wild little everything inside this now, which I am crouching to fit into. m. in the dooryard. Providence. Resolve. Alcohol. I am afraid of my dreams. Maybe a mourning dove wheezes out of a hedge, lungs throbbed by its own wings (they build bad nests eggs often slip out) stupid and faithful.
A fake African necklace, the leaf of a fishbody, left. Nothing lives sometimes, said mom, but guard yourself from vague beliefs about it. I stuck by the bone-white lighthouse, while she went as farther than I could see. Now she shouts: fur comes from cold shores, following rivulets, stars north stars, flowers. III. Dumb lighthouse, I would have thought. Empty sweet junk to those who are pleased by old tools. Oh sure, you could run up the steps and back— ( 28 ) the light was blinding, glacial. Cottonwood seeds, one week, trailed into drifts of puffs and did not melt; caught in the new erosion.
Can I choose? — came to beat down my door. Their poems are fine but I don’t want fine. ( 18 ) Meanwhile, crashing. I’ve decided to fight and here’s why. 12/1/06 I moved rooms again; I sleep in no one’s bed. The bellmen know the handsome sadness is a hotel. They can’t be surprised. Found books in the nightstand: What Business Should I Start? Why Men Marry Some Women and Not Others Evil is Not Your Enemy What Do People Do All Day Most of this is How To. Here’s a book: Your Life is Going Off. Here’s a book: Wake the Fuck Up.
A little middle of the night by Molly Brodak