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, desires and awakenings. As echoed in a single epigraph from Emerson, those poems trap “the specific and the colossal” of attention in severe lyric verse with an angular and virtually medical sensitivity. here's a speaker reason on discovery: “Oh complete global, we decide / another.”
This award-winning assortment simmers with wit as Brodak confronts tragedy, early life 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 colour in my house / and a chilly apple orchard to have a tendency as opposed to consciousness.” As Reginald Shepherd acknowledged concerning the poems in Brodak’s first assortment, the chapbook Instructions for a Painting, her international is “‘small adequate / to sing in all directions,’ and big adequate to take us there.”
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Extra info for A little middle of the night
Leave dawn an indeterminate pink, leave the cat with a cloud for a mouth. Make this whole hovering over the yellow scrub of lakeshore near Luna Pier— it should belong to your hands. It should already be old. ( 45 ) Lacan as an Australian Settler There are stars here but not enough. What do I do with what I wanted? ) Until I landed and met everything other. Day one & some odd femur defies England. And the interior sea is missing —no, pasture, pasture: another abandoned room for my counterfeit emergence, capture— my lonely little a?
Dead bum, dead for days, on my way to work. No thanks clocks, or chore of pants. The day is to hate or laugh or nothing: pick the least sick. I’m going back to the blanket bucket. To the yellowy out. ( 24 ) Mars Black i. Gold Winter. I seem to remember your black eyes, see, it would be fine if I never know you. Two straps on the back of a truck go after me like arms. As splendor is too often soft. ii. Tired of Designing Cereal Boxes. A year goes by and there you are. The man in the next car says don’t take me to the hospital.
Gold Winter. I seem to remember your black eyes, see, it would be fine if I never know you. Two straps on the back of a truck go after me like arms. As splendor is too often soft. ii. Tired of Designing Cereal Boxes. A year goes by and there you are. The man in the next car says don’t take me to the hospital. Goddamn most everything, goddamn us right up the middle— aches of teeth and the hate spot in my chest; I saw it my way and died there. iii. Understand: I listened to your recording. There was a bird on Your End or mine, that’s all I thought about.
A little middle of the night by Molly Brodak