If You Like “Hazardous Bliss”, Conversations With the Universe, and Landscape Paintings
Bright Dead Things by Ada Limón
VIOLETS’ PICKS 007
Where I found it
Discovered on a list of award-winning poets, I, ever the judge-a-book-by-it’s-cover type, had saved this book on my to-read list solely for its title. I used to run a newsletter called Tiny Wonderful Things, which I folded recently to make time and space for this one, and that was a title inspired by Tiny Beautiful Things, that book of collected advice columns by Wild writer Cheryl Strayed, who now writes on Substack (See:
). Guess I like nice “things”. I’d seen Ada’s name elsewhere; she used to host The Slowdown, a podcast about poetry, of which she said:“I want to focus on how useful poetry can be in our daily lives. Poetry is one of the few art forms that has breath built right into it. It literally wants us to breathe, to pause for a moment and pay attention to what matters. Whether it’s a tree that we are asked to notice, a moment in time, or a lyrical wonder, it only wants us to listen, to slow down, to notice the mystery and awe of this human life. Perhaps more than ever before, these uncertain times require the humanity that poetry offers.”
First impressions
I tend to associate orange with fun. Energy. Creativity. A neutral form of optimism, neither too happy-go-lucky like yellow nor anything, really. I could tell the cover was orange when I checked it out at the library, but when I had it in my hands, only then did I notice how accurately it fit the title. Bright Dead Things. If any colour is the opposite of dead, I think I’d bet on it being orange. But here it was, a smattering of oranges and browns and greens and reds so vague the brushstrokes blend into one another, and yet so clear that it’s a tree I’m looking at in the midst of a bright and burning landscape where even sky is not barely tinted but full-on orange. Already, I felt off-kilter, not sure whether it’d be a spark or a burning ember, a fresh start or a burn-it-all-down kind of poetry collection.
They said it
A book of bravado and introspection, of feminist swagger and harrowing loss, this fourth collection considers how we build our identities out of place and human contact—tracing in intimate detail the ways the speaker’s sense of self both shifts and perseveres as she moves from New York City to rural Kentucky, loses a dear parent, ages past the capriciousness of youth, and falls in love. Ada Limón has often been a poet who wears her heart on her sleeve, but in these extraordinary poems that heart becomes a “huge beating genius machine” striving to embrace and understand the fullness of the present moment. “I am beautiful. I am full of love. I am dying,” the poet writes. Building on the legacies of forebears such as Frank O’Hara, Sharon Olds, and Mark Doty, Limón’s work is consistently generous, accessible, and “effortlessly lyrical” (New York Times)—though every observed moment feels complexly thought, felt, and lived.
-From the publisher
Lines to remember
your fingers under still sleep-stunned sheets coaxed all my colors back. -From “The Tree of Fire”
neon and bouncy like a wannabe star -From “Field Bling”
I used to believe in God. Mainly, I liked so much to talk to someone in the dark. -From “Miracle Fish”
She’s in the window crying because the city is too big -From “Play It Again”
and she’s going to paint and have big ideas, and he’s going to save the world with curriculum -From “Play It Again”
You might like this if…
Horses are one of your favorite animals. Your memories take place in landscapes from Montana to Mexico. You’ve been grappling with the past, trying to find your way towards a future. You’re mesmerized by fire, flame, and forces of nature: you’ve looked at the stars so often they seem claustrophobic.
This was the colour of…
Every shade of orange, yes. Solo bonfires and desperate attempts at sparks only to find simmering black coal like the “foul black fire tires” we call the sun. Orange and black like “crazy sky and stars between”. But also: orange’s siblings, cousins, friends, and family. Gold. Red. Blue and green, too. There is grief and death and cruel mess but “it’s not sadness, though it may sound like it.” It’s darkness with the light shone on it, fully vibrant and alive through all the bright dead things. Rainbow, with emphasis on our golden hours, no pot at the end but hope now.
Details
Year: 2015
Author: Ada Limón, who was profiled in the The New York Times as a poet who actually makes a living as a poet
Location: Sonoma, California → NYC → Lexington, Kentucky
Publisher: Milkweed Editions
You’re reading Violets’ Picks, where every Sunday I take you through an adventure brought to you by a poetry collection. Here’s some other Violets’ Picks this month you may have missed:
This is one of my favorite poetry collections. Love your write up and especially the lines you chose to call out ✨