A little middle of the night by Molly Brodak

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.”

Show description

Read or Download A little middle of the night PDF

Similar poetry books

Dante’s Inferno: The Indiana Critical Edition

This new severe variation, together with Mark Musa’s vintage translation, offers scholars with a transparent, readable verse translation followed through ten leading edge interpretations of Dante’s masterpiece.

Itself (Wesleyan Poetry Series)

What do "self" and "it" have in universal? In Rae Armantrout's new poems, there isn't any inert substance. Self and it (word and particle) are ritual and rigmarole, song-and-dance and lengthy distance name into no matter what darkish topic could exist. How might a self no longer be egocentric? Armantrout accesses the strangeness of daily incidence with wit, sensuality, and an eye fixed alert to underlying trauma, as within the poem "Price Points" the place a guy conducts an imaginary orchestra yet "gets no issues for originality.

The Nibelungenlied: The Lay of the Nibelungs (Oxford World's Classics)

The best of the heroic epics to emerge from medieval Germany, the Nibelungenlied is a revenge saga of sweeping dimensions. It tells of the dragon-slayer Sivrit, and the mysterious country of the Nibelungs with its valuable treasure-hoard guarded by means of dwarves and giants, of Prünhilt the Amazonian queen, fortune-telling water-sprites and a cloak of invisibility.

Arthurian Chronicles: Roman de Brut

(Robert John) Wace (c. 1100 - c. 1174) was once an Anglo-Norman poet, who was once born in Jersey and taken up in mainland Normandy. Roman de Brut (c. 1155) was once in line with the Historia Regum Britanniae of Geoffrey of Monmouth. Its attractiveness is defined via the recent accessibility to a much wider public of the Arthur legend in a vernacular language.

Extra info for A little middle of the night

Example text

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?

Download PDF sample

Rated 4.44 of 5 – based on 29 votes