By Molly Brodak
The language of Molly Brodak’s first full-length assortment, A Little center of the Night, is ever moving, brightly sonic, and disarming whereas exploring the margin among nature and artwork, darkness and wonder, goals and awakenings. As echoed in a single epigraph from Emerson, those poems seize “the special and the large” of awareness in excessive lyric verse with an angular and virtually clinical sensitivity. here's a speaker rationale on discovery: “Oh complete global, we decide / another.”
This award-winning assortment simmers with wit as Brodak confronts tragedy, adolescence losses, transcendent love, and the query of paintings itself. Tinged with a suffering—“I used to be 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 artwork and what exists among: “Lately, there's spangled colour in my area / and a chilly apple orchard to have a tendency instead of consciousness.” As Reginald Shepherd stated concerning the poems in Brodak’s first assortment, the chapbook Instructions for a Painting, her international is “‘small sufficient / 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
I was my own church. Except— scared, scared. ( 16 ) Diary of a Year without Pictures 5/13/06 Watching “Surviving the Icelandic Sea”— The ship is also the processor. There is a trough for spines, dumps to the ocean when he walks in the room like read it and weep. Somehow, I deserve this. The man who swam on his back for two days spoke to myself. Spoke to the gulls. Pulled his body to a shore of lava fields. No one believed him. They kept putting me back in. All my life, for research. Why have you not given up on us?
This is not so far. Look at the eye of an ape, a dog: looks enough like me. But try: fish. Lobe-fin, bone of coelacanth. Try new bodies for new lives. I’d make a fine suit of love and disappear. 8: IN WHICH THEY MEMORIZE. The crooked tooth who went first. The way something blew your scarf as you ran, tossing off musts. The tyranny of dawn, repeating. The snow-like window between us. The shouldering through. The cardinal that flew from a wound. ( 40 ) The spill of your hair-thin chain as it broke while we slept and the gold links became us, and the locket was swallowed.
Except— scared, scared. ( 16 ) Diary of a Year without Pictures 5/13/06 Watching “Surviving the Icelandic Sea”— The ship is also the processor. There is a trough for spines, dumps to the ocean when he walks in the room like read it and weep. Somehow, I deserve this. The man who swam on his back for two days spoke to myself. Spoke to the gulls. Pulled his body to a shore of lava fields. No one believed him. They kept putting me back in. All my life, for research. Why have you not given up on us?