The Screaming Middle: a memoir in verse of a very strange year
This is a memoir of a woman turning 50 who forgot to have a party. It takes you on road trips, into psych wards, into the chambers of marriage and through epic failures, brilliant ideas and back to kingdoms of chaos and castles of hilarity. There’s a lot of bitching and loving, a lot of fights and great nights. It’s Orwellian in its frank and unforgiving expedition through life’s hardships and glories. If you thought you needed Little Golden Books when you were young then think no more about trading up to the solid gold of The Screaming Middle: the novel cure we all need.
|ISBN 97819215231335 (PB, 110pp);
140mm x 216mm
|AUD $25||USD $18||NZD $27||GBP £12||EUR €14|
|ISBN 97819215231342 (eBook)||AUD $13||USD $10||NZD $15||GBP £6||EUR €7|
Susan Bradley Smith is a cunning, beguiling writer. All of life in all its immediacy and complexity is here, delivered in verse of seeming simplicity and great virtuosity. The Screaming Middle rewards on every level.
– Andrew Cowan
These plein air postcards of love, rage and lust for life are as luminous and fleeting as 9 by 5s, only we are in a car breaking down somewhere, or trawling for finds or cooking up a storm. She effortlessly blends an unpretentious erudition with the sound of now. What a rare delight and pleasure it is to encounter her ferocious care of everything.
– Lucy Dougan
One hardly knows what to write (or what to think) after surfacing from the maelstrom of The Screaming Middle. Perhaps – ‘Kebang!’ And then – ‘Enough.’ What a killer ride through A Year In The Life Of … (which way is up?) Mind, it is screamingly funny, then, whacko! lets rip with howl after howl of anguish, then, susurrates with tenderest apprehensions. Some daredevil poet, this one is.
– Jennifer Compton
Susan Bradley Smith’s The Screaming Middle is a remarkable study of the contradictions of time. While a novel on the occasion of a fiftieth year–two great lenses through which to experience time–the work itself is composed of small fragments of glass, each piece reflecting all the other pieces. It is brilliant in its mastery of the Japanese Tanka form (Tan: short, Ka: poem) and an affirmation of the mosaic real life–in all its messiness–seems to assemble on its own.”
– David Keplinger, Professor of Poetry, American University
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Happy birthday to me on earth: the 50th return
I should be bright green and lost in space, kissing stars just to lose my lips, burning off fifty off-beam years, but here I am—branded.
Surfing safari just to prove I’m not dead
When you paddle out there is no end to the lust, no end to wave’s loose- lipped pash: there is only you, this, and your migrating soul.
Sunday drive in September
The street where we once lived looked warped and weedy, thus losing its hostage hold on me, despite its gold- crusted memories (now dust).
Ballina airport luggage carousel knows too well my tired agony: too much baggage, too many dreams of tinfoiled surfboards: cracked.
Us watching the kids swim (Hallelujah)
Love like squeaked cotton becomes us beneath the wild- fingered trees as we inhale clouds and worship the lake which christens our children.
He’s my cousin, he who turns back boats like old girlfriends panting on Facebook or unwanted knocks on late night doors: red secret.
It’s like reaching through glass to history to find you and though I do and it’s real, perfect, the strangest thing is that haunt of not was.
Sibling song (morning)
I saw my brother from my bedroom window, he was walking his dog at fiveish after the night’s rain, along satin ocean.
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