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 specified and the great” of cognizance in excessive lyric verse with an angular and virtually clinical sensitivity. here's a speaker rationale on discovery: “Oh complete global, we elect / another.”
This award-winning assortment simmers with wit as Brodak confronts tragedy, early life losses, transcendent love, and the query of artwork 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 paintings and what exists among: “Lately, there's spangled colour 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 international is “‘small sufficient / to sing in all directions,’ and massive adequate to take us there.”
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Additional info for A little middle of the night
Built pressboard desks in jail. Eight years, etc. A serious chime from some casino ( 33 ) lit an old light, and he fought us, fought cops, gave up for cash— a flux what seeks the dark, as a murmur of words, come tumbling. Released, he seemed old, not good-old, not mean-old, we joked. He knew the way back, fake gun, new note, mystery especially: at hand, mystery, in the parking lot at a party store, mystery. ( 34 ) A Little Middle of the Night Somewhere a pipe organ plays the oldest, lowest sound from a fifty-foot pipe— as a sound is only a span of time, as a key is also a lock.
So, listen, I’m afraid of where I will go under the anesthesia. Don’t think belief is uninterruptible. There is a reason, then there is murder, forgetfulness. Normal and not normal. In my dream, Mom brings me a tassel of robin’s feet. I have an owl in a cage exactly the size of its body. It escapes just moments later. ( 15 ) Underneath Ever to admit my loneliness is unnecessary and hedge in whatever frail danger is left in me doesn’t explain why things feel so inside out. The last dump and trailer on the edge of town— which way to the wilderness?
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. I left fondness up to you. And now, we’ll burn that bridge when we come to it. I asked what is going to happen and he said it’s happening. ( 23 ) Going Back to Sleep A minute ago, a whistle or laugh from a flabby tree. A ring of chintz girls, clasped around the lidless corpse I saw near Tigers Stadium.
A little middle of the night by Molly Brodak