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 sweetness, goals and awakenings. As echoed in a single epigraph from Emerson, those poems seize “the certain and the titanic” of realization in severe lyric verse with an angular and nearly clinical sensitivity. here's a speaker purpose on discovery: “Oh complete global, we elect / another.”
This award-winning assortment simmers with wit as Brodak confronts tragedy, formative years 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 paintings and what exists among: “Lately, there's spangled colour in my area / and a chilly apple orchard to have a tendency as opposed to consciousness.” As Reginald Shepherd stated in regards to the poems in Brodak’s first assortment, the chapbook Instructions for a Painting, her global is “‘small sufficient / 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
Changing my mind. Green and pink light knitted across us; it was just a thought. Bouquet of overrated roses on my real lap. ( 42 ) “Ha, ha. ” — Hardy, “Channel Firing” Lake-like Paint the sumac chest-high, aching out of somewhere primitive. Use blue only in a wild spray of starlings to tangle the pocket of nothing above the highway. Below, in the panic-grass and sedges some dirty cat with the fur of its neck knifed up—the same beige. Leave dawn an indeterminate pink, leave the cat with a cloud for a mouth.
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. 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.
A spine goes sick from the burning blue sky into this, bear brain gloom among sunshine. II. Plates of ice seemed fun at the time. A dropped purple glove, pointing all directions at once. A fake African necklace, the leaf of a fishbody, left. Nothing lives sometimes, said mom, but guard yourself from vague beliefs about it. I stuck by the bone-white lighthouse, while she went as farther than I could see. Now she shouts: fur comes from cold shores, following rivulets, stars north stars, flowers. III.
A little middle of the night by Molly Brodak