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 wonder, desires and awakenings. As echoed in a single epigraph from Emerson, those poems catch “the certain and the significant” of awareness in severe lyric verse with an angular and nearly clinical sensitivity. here's a speaker cause on discovery: “Oh entire global, we elect / another.”
This award-winning assortment simmers with wit as Brodak confronts tragedy, formative years losses, transcendent love, and the query of artwork 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 area / and a chilly apple orchard to have a tendency rather than 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 adequate to take us there.”
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Extra resources for A little middle of the night
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.
Take us out of here. Wars begin inside of one person, imagine that. We lived on borders: range to basin, plain to shore, a flood under the flood. One ripple against the coast became a deer, three deer, huge on junk food. m. I watch them climb the slope of our frontyard, one gallops up the steps. ( 31 ) North of North In the lobby of a theater you dialed me— clinks of a pinball in the background. Trouble begins in distances. We know enough to keep going. Mountains there had been topped to hold malls; the old peaks pushed into a secret valley.
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. A man suddenly scooped up a dead wren with a playing card and it was too far to hear what he said, or if he laughed when he threw it.