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In Accelerated Silence: Poems
"The thin knife that severed your tumor," writes Brooke Matson in these poems, "it cleaves me still." What to do when a world is split--terribly, wholly--by grief? When the loss of the beloved undermines the most stable foundations, the most sacred spaces, of that world? What else but to interrogate the very fundamental principles themselves, all the knowns previously relied light, religion, physical matter, time?
Often borrowing voices and perspectives from its scientific subjects, In Accelerated Silence investigates the multidimensional nature of grief and its blurring of boundaries--between what is present and what is absent, between what is real and imagined, between the promises of science and the mysteries of human knowing, and between the pain that never ends and the world that refuses to. The grieving and the seeking go on, Matson suggests, but there comes a day when we emerge, "now strong enough / to venture out of doors, thin // and swathed in a robe," only to find it has continued "full and flourishing and larger than before."
Sensual and devastating, In Accelerated Silence--selected by Mark Doty as winner of the Jake Adam York Prize--creates an unforgettable portrait of loss full of urgency and heartache and philosophical daring.
Often borrowing voices and perspectives from its scientific subjects, In Accelerated Silence investigates the multidimensional nature of grief and its blurring of boundaries--between what is present and what is absent, between what is real and imagined, between the promises of science and the mysteries of human knowing, and between the pain that never ends and the world that refuses to. The grieving and the seeking go on, Matson suggests, but there comes a day when we emerge, "now strong enough / to venture out of doors, thin // and swathed in a robe," only to find it has continued "full and flourishing and larger than before."
Sensual and devastating, In Accelerated Silence--selected by Mark Doty as winner of the Jake Adam York Prize--creates an unforgettable portrait of loss full of urgency and heartache and philosophical daring.
- GenresPoetry
88 pages, Kindle Edition
First published February 11, 2020
6 people are currently reading
137 people want to read
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 33 reviews
March 2, 2020
Matson has crafted one of the most intriguing collections of poetry I have ever read. Her marriage of physics, in which I have a background, and poetry, which I have a passion for, tackles grief and love in ways that only the chaos of space can relate.
Having lost my mother earlier this year I found this work to be a cathartic experience as well as an inspiration for the direction I wish my own poetry to seek.
These poems are utterly beautiful.
Having lost my mother earlier this year I found this work to be a cathartic experience as well as an inspiration for the direction I wish my own poetry to seek.
These poems are utterly beautiful.
March 28, 2022
LAW OF THE CONSERVATION OF MASS
i. Big Bang
Maybe there was a word-
a short, single syllable that fell
like a long-traveled drop
of rain and shuddered
a seed of light
into a flock of starlings,
wildfires of wings.
How long till matter
clotted like drops of mercury
into planets and moons and stars,
into a pulse
and a brain that believed?
(...)
i. Big Bang
Maybe there was a word-
a short, single syllable that fell
like a long-traveled drop
of rain and shuddered
a seed of light
into a flock of starlings,
wildfires of wings.
How long till matter
clotted like drops of mercury
into planets and moons and stars,
into a pulse
and a brain that believed?
(...)
This entire review has been hidden because of spoilers.
October 2, 2020
I've never seen my boyfriend cry and I read him two poems from this and there were instant tears.
March 15, 2023
An excellent poetry collection on grief. I felt it really helped me open up to other perspectives on loss. I thoroughly enjoyed and underlined most of the poems in here, though it tapered off a bit (for me at least) toward the end. The astrophysics theme disappeared in the last ten or so poems, and I felt like the collection could have been further synthesized at the end. Regardless, this is one of the best collections I've read in a while.
June 18, 2020
These poems were exquisite aches. Wow.
Read
February 15, 2020I think I will always feel unqualified when reviewing poetry because I just don't read it. Because it's scary. Because I may not "get it". Because poets are tapped into that divine self-actualization that transcends the base brains of us mere mortals who are just not tuned in to the right station. I do, however, know when I like the sound of certain words that are paired together, or when an image is beautifully captured in a vivid metaphor. In this poetry collection, Matson internalizes that all-consuming, painful power of loss and turns it into poetry. The “you” in her poems seems to be a different person, and yet the same person; her losses different ones, and yet the same loss. They are diverse poems, and yet, they unify. Matson gives the seemingly cold characteristics of science warmth, showing how the biological functions of the body operate with the mystic power of the mind, not apart from it. My favorites were "Ode To Dark Matter", "Newton's Apple", "Impossible Things", and "Electron Cloud" <-- especially this one. Read them aloud.
Read
March 16, 2023Qué gran colección de poemas. No conocía a la autora: ahora quiero leer todo lo que encuentre de ella.
Por lo que he podido ver en otras reseñas, gran parte de lo que interpretas depende de en qué momento del duelo te encuentras. ¿Pero cuál es la medida y cómo la aplicas? ¿El nivel de dolor? ¿La cercanía con el evento? ¿La cercanía con el sujeto?
Para eso existe este libro. Y la poesía, en general. Para fabricar, esculpir, una yuxtaposición de conceptos en medio de una frase en donde pasas de la taxonomía de las manzanas a los distintos tipos de campos en la física de partículas.
Es tanto lo que ha pasado en nuestas vidas en tan poco tiempo, que la poesía se está innovando al ritmo de la ciencia, se está adaptando a su lenguaje para poder seguir haciendo su trabajo: apalabrar lo inefable de la experiencia humana. Y vaya que Matson lo logra.
Por lo que he podido ver en otras reseñas, gran parte de lo que interpretas depende de en qué momento del duelo te encuentras. ¿Pero cuál es la medida y cómo la aplicas? ¿El nivel de dolor? ¿La cercanía con el evento? ¿La cercanía con el sujeto?
Para eso existe este libro. Y la poesía, en general. Para fabricar, esculpir, una yuxtaposición de conceptos en medio de una frase en donde pasas de la taxonomía de las manzanas a los distintos tipos de campos en la física de partículas.
Es tanto lo que ha pasado en nuestas vidas en tan poco tiempo, que la poesía se está innovando al ritmo de la ciencia, se está adaptando a su lenguaje para poder seguir haciendo su trabajo: apalabrar lo inefable de la experiencia humana. Y vaya que Matson lo logra.
April 30, 2022
I didn't connect to this book, personally, but I have the sense that if you are in the middle or recently out of a situation of immense grief, it would land differently.
Matson is clearly skillful, but I felt the astrophysics container often felt contrived, and that the best poems were those that were of a more everyday nature. The teakettle poem, for instance, I quite liked, and the sense of loss registered for me in a more fundamental way with that poem than all the discussion of splitting/chance/multiverses.
Matson is clearly skillful, but I felt the astrophysics container often felt contrived, and that the best poems were those that were of a more everyday nature. The teakettle poem, for instance, I quite liked, and the sense of loss registered for me in a more fundamental way with that poem than all the discussion of splitting/chance/multiverses.
April 4, 2024
This wrecked me. WRECKED ME. Dead partner, tying science/astronomy to grief, and lots of red fruits. UGH MY HEART. Jesus. Sob. I love all the elegies here, and the poems tie together/reference each other beautifully. The octopus poem is especially good.
December 23, 2023
Collection of odes, elegies, and sonnets about lost love to brain cancer set with background of metaphors from wider universe. Heavy with grief and longing, not easily forgotten.
September 4, 2023
NEWTON's APPLE
Came to him casually, a wild syllable
of color, a ripe proposition.
Bruised on the grass, a casual reminder
of our entrance on the earth.
Anchored to field, a weight
that tipped the scale,
Eclipsed the sun, the pocket of its blushing
body burnished.
Cleaved his angular thoughts like a joke.
Weighed in the cup of his hand, a mass
of lead, of red, of laughter.
Dropped again to be sure.
Bruised again / again / again /
ELEGY IN THE FORM OF AN OCTOPUS
I gasp when her body ripples from rust
to silver. Her tentacles fumble the mussel
at the edge of the tank. I've been
that desperate lately, willing to break
delicate things for hunger's sake, like the ivory
dishes that recall the years
before we met. How satisfying to split
the discs against patio concrete, to abandon
carloads of furnishings at Goodwill
and imagine my grief tucked in the bags.
Strong emotions cause her to change color
the biologist explains as she transfigures
into a knot of red caught on a twig,
a deflated balloon in a breeze. An octopus
is smarter than a house cat. Her eye
ficks in my direction, every cell hinged
on listening. No exoskeleton means vulnerability.
I press a hand to the glass and her ruddy skin
peppers with white the way my neck
felt like rain each time you grazed it. She heaves
her body over her quarry like a paper lantern
set over a flame. If I could have plucked you
like a mussel from your shell
I would have swallowed you whole.
EVE'S APPLE
Became soft, browned flesh—eucharist
dissolved on a tongue where it
Dropped
Bruised among the leaves.
Gnawed by badgers.
Drunk by moths.
Succumbed to hordes of ants ascending in the night.
Filed to a spire of seeds, the rind bending
toward the field.
Illuminated under the crescent moon,
a slender skull
with five narrow eyes.
Tempted away from shape—
Leaned toward sugar, toward myth.
Imprinted on the field, an indented
cup of scent—the urgent press
of her question.
LAW OF INERTIA
A pair of sandals suspended
near the front door, the
same that walked beside
him on the shore, their gold
straps worn to grey. Call
them artifacts of a woman
who died. I've left my body
far behind since the funeral.
Their haphazard stance
spells tragedy, waiting for
hands to arrive that might
cradle them like relics—
reverent and ridiculous as
this woman here, unable to
bury the year-old bag of rice
in the garbage pail because
his thick fingers once
pressed the seal, or to sell
the couch where our
shoulders and thighs
etched the polyester-linen
blend. How comfortable we
both declared the cushions
and how holy it seems now
—the padded springs still
insist on his shape.
ELEGY IN THE FORM OF STEAM
The teakettle quiets before it whistles
and in that breath I recall
the way your hands did simple tasks
with great intention: crushing garlic
with the thick ball of your palm,
stirring soup like it could be injured.
Making the bed, you took your time
smoothing the crease of the top sheet
like soil over newly planted seeds.
The weight of your hand at rest
comforted the silver handle
as you waited for a shrill scream
to cloud the air, a confirmation
of what was real. I grasp
its slender shoulder, lift its body
from the burner. My contents
falter as its cry
falls cold.
Came to him casually, a wild syllable
of color, a ripe proposition.
Bruised on the grass, a casual reminder
of our entrance on the earth.
Anchored to field, a weight
that tipped the scale,
Eclipsed the sun, the pocket of its blushing
body burnished.
Cleaved his angular thoughts like a joke.
Weighed in the cup of his hand, a mass
of lead, of red, of laughter.
Dropped again to be sure.
Bruised again / again / again /
ELEGY IN THE FORM OF AN OCTOPUS
I gasp when her body ripples from rust
to silver. Her tentacles fumble the mussel
at the edge of the tank. I've been
that desperate lately, willing to break
delicate things for hunger's sake, like the ivory
dishes that recall the years
before we met. How satisfying to split
the discs against patio concrete, to abandon
carloads of furnishings at Goodwill
and imagine my grief tucked in the bags.
Strong emotions cause her to change color
the biologist explains as she transfigures
into a knot of red caught on a twig,
a deflated balloon in a breeze. An octopus
is smarter than a house cat. Her eye
ficks in my direction, every cell hinged
on listening. No exoskeleton means vulnerability.
I press a hand to the glass and her ruddy skin
peppers with white the way my neck
felt like rain each time you grazed it. She heaves
her body over her quarry like a paper lantern
set over a flame. If I could have plucked you
like a mussel from your shell
I would have swallowed you whole.
EVE'S APPLE
Became soft, browned flesh—eucharist
dissolved on a tongue where it
Dropped
Bruised among the leaves.
Gnawed by badgers.
Drunk by moths.
Succumbed to hordes of ants ascending in the night.
Filed to a spire of seeds, the rind bending
toward the field.
Illuminated under the crescent moon,
a slender skull
with five narrow eyes.
Tempted away from shape—
Leaned toward sugar, toward myth.
Imprinted on the field, an indented
cup of scent—the urgent press
of her question.
LAW OF INERTIA
A pair of sandals suspended
near the front door, the
same that walked beside
him on the shore, their gold
straps worn to grey. Call
them artifacts of a woman
who died. I've left my body
far behind since the funeral.
Their haphazard stance
spells tragedy, waiting for
hands to arrive that might
cradle them like relics—
reverent and ridiculous as
this woman here, unable to
bury the year-old bag of rice
in the garbage pail because
his thick fingers once
pressed the seal, or to sell
the couch where our
shoulders and thighs
etched the polyester-linen
blend. How comfortable we
both declared the cushions
and how holy it seems now
—the padded springs still
insist on his shape.
ELEGY IN THE FORM OF STEAM
The teakettle quiets before it whistles
and in that breath I recall
the way your hands did simple tasks
with great intention: crushing garlic
with the thick ball of your palm,
stirring soup like it could be injured.
Making the bed, you took your time
smoothing the crease of the top sheet
like soil over newly planted seeds.
The weight of your hand at rest
comforted the silver handle
as you waited for a shrill scream
to cloud the air, a confirmation
of what was real. I grasp
its slender shoulder, lift its body
from the burner. My contents
falter as its cry
falls cold.
December 18, 2023
After reading The Creative Act by Rick Rubin, I’m trying to see that every sincere creative act is itself a beautiful work. I may not always connect with the result, but I’ve stopped trying to judge whether art is good or bad, and instead see that it is a sincere act of expression by another human.
I picked this collection of poems up after a friend told me about the peculiar style, which bends into complete abstraction. This collection seems to be a public grieving over the loss of Matson’s beloved, told largely through scientific subjects and religious metaphors. It’s an odd combination that extols the unknown and unknowable, even painting her own grief as a thing to marvel at. Grief for me is not a seductive mystery, but how interesting to see a poet unravel her experience this way.
There is something methodical, persistent, and even tedious in her writing that I found it somewhat easy to read through quickly. I tend to read poetry slowly—not so with this one.
My favorite poem might the first, which posits the hope that humans never understand the mystery of Dark Matter, since what we try to understand, we destroy.
“Whatever we see, we break—count and dismember all we touch: the earth. The atom. Anatomy. Eve.”
I picked this collection of poems up after a friend told me about the peculiar style, which bends into complete abstraction. This collection seems to be a public grieving over the loss of Matson’s beloved, told largely through scientific subjects and religious metaphors. It’s an odd combination that extols the unknown and unknowable, even painting her own grief as a thing to marvel at. Grief for me is not a seductive mystery, but how interesting to see a poet unravel her experience this way.
There is something methodical, persistent, and even tedious in her writing that I found it somewhat easy to read through quickly. I tend to read poetry slowly—not so with this one.
My favorite poem might the first, which posits the hope that humans never understand the mystery of Dark Matter, since what we try to understand, we destroy.
“Whatever we see, we break—count and dismember all we touch: the earth. The atom. Anatomy. Eve.”
July 13, 2023
An odyssey through a bereaved mind, trying desperately to tear itself from overwhelming grief but finding it inescapable, omnipresent in the world around it.
Many no doubt find Tennyson's "Tis better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all." to be quoted way too often, but it more than applies to the subject of In Accelerated Silence.
I really like how Matson manages to allow each stanza- every line break, even- to dictate the flow of her poems. Some are choppy, violent, sentence fragments spilling over many breaks in the page, others are a stream of unbroken thought, as if scribbled desperately on the last remaining page, whilst even others occupy their space on the page in perfect harmony with everything around it. Excellent, varied use of the page that, to me, never faltered in execution.
Fantastic collection.
Many no doubt find Tennyson's "Tis better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all." to be quoted way too often, but it more than applies to the subject of In Accelerated Silence.
I really like how Matson manages to allow each stanza- every line break, even- to dictate the flow of her poems. Some are choppy, violent, sentence fragments spilling over many breaks in the page, others are a stream of unbroken thought, as if scribbled desperately on the last remaining page, whilst even others occupy their space on the page in perfect harmony with everything around it. Excellent, varied use of the page that, to me, never faltered in execution.
Fantastic collection.
September 9, 2021
I picked this book up at random, falling for the cover and title. The beauty inside completely lived up to the packaging. I was surprised to find out this poet is local to my town. I adored the juxtaposition of physics, space, multiverse, grief, love, death. Honestly reading this at another time I would probably give it 5 stars... but in the drained mindset of this never ending pandemic I had to put it down a few times and come back to it. However, I think this could be a great comfort in a time of loss, at times it is painful to read, yes I cried, but as there is poetry in death, death in poetry, there is beauty too.
August 12, 2024
3.5 Stars.
I am not someone who really likes poetry. Especially modern poetry,
Yet, for some ungodly reason, I keep reading it. Maybe it’s a desire to figure out why people like it, or maybe it’s my attempt to change how I feel about it. Either way, this selection of poems was really good.
There were many poems that I didn’t understand entirely, but the ones that did made it all worth it.
This was a collection that was driven by grief and a love of life. That much shone through. Overall, a beautiful collection. If you find modern poetry to be something you particularly enjoy, I highly recommend reading this.
I am not someone who really likes poetry. Especially modern poetry,
Yet, for some ungodly reason, I keep reading it. Maybe it’s a desire to figure out why people like it, or maybe it’s my attempt to change how I feel about it. Either way, this selection of poems was really good.
There were many poems that I didn’t understand entirely, but the ones that did made it all worth it.
This was a collection that was driven by grief and a love of life. That much shone through. Overall, a beautiful collection. If you find modern poetry to be something you particularly enjoy, I highly recommend reading this.
October 10, 2021
What a tremendously amazing book of poetry dealing with grief. There were so many lines that struck me. Here are just a few:
“It must still be there in the soil:
rust from the ribs of the stars
dividing in the rind of your skull, scissoring
one life into many.”
from “Red Giant” pg 9
“iv. Hiroshima
Think of a lit match-
how its head vanishes.”
from “Law of the Conservation of Mass” pg 22
“webs of mycelium have eaten
your nerve endings
and detritus curls like leaves
in the best of your aorta.”
from “Impossible Things” pg 41
“It must still be there in the soil:
rust from the ribs of the stars
dividing in the rind of your skull, scissoring
one life into many.”
from “Red Giant” pg 9
“iv. Hiroshima
Think of a lit match-
how its head vanishes.”
from “Law of the Conservation of Mass” pg 22
“webs of mycelium have eaten
your nerve endings
and detritus curls like leaves
in the best of your aorta.”
from “Impossible Things” pg 41
August 9, 2024
A collection of poems about the grief of losing a partner combined with poems about the universe.
from Ode to Dark Matter: "Dear wild unknown: tow the borders /of this universe far beyond // our grasp. Whatever we are, we break— / count and dismember // all we touch: / The earth. The atom. Anatomy. Eve. // Be the animal that escapes / our love without a wound."
from Electron Cloud: "Some days I pause by the rotary phone / to spin the letters of your name // winding back time / in the hum and clack // of the wheel—reeling you in // letter // by letter // Never mind // that it's not plugged in / I swear to god some days // I hear a crackling on the other end"
from Ode to Dark Matter: "Dear wild unknown: tow the borders /of this universe far beyond // our grasp. Whatever we are, we break— / count and dismember // all we touch: / The earth. The atom. Anatomy. Eve. // Be the animal that escapes / our love without a wound."
from Electron Cloud: "Some days I pause by the rotary phone / to spin the letters of your name // winding back time / in the hum and clack // of the wheel—reeling you in // letter // by letter // Never mind // that it's not plugged in / I swear to god some days // I hear a crackling on the other end"
July 5, 2023
“I haven’t been to Mass since Death (capital d) entered the narrative and sent my heart palpitating with rage at nothing in particular, because who can be blamed for unexplained cancer?”
The collection was devastatingly gorgeous and hit close to home. Matson weaves grief and religious trauma and rage together to create such an inescapable ache. I loved her poems on the page, there was so much thought put into the shape of them.
The collection was devastatingly gorgeous and hit close to home. Matson weaves grief and religious trauma and rage together to create such an inescapable ache. I loved her poems on the page, there was so much thought put into the shape of them.
April 10, 2021
I don't often read poetry, but this collection had so much narrative pull I couldn't put it down. The restrained palette of metaphors, the way we came back again and again to pomegranates and physics (and everything else), the collective ache of every poem—this is a book I'm going to want to read again.
December 19, 2020
you really can't just write
Maybe I am the narrow hot
line at the edge of the
visible spectrum, inching
towards invisible, bordering
on irrelevant. Understand:
anything can be red,
usually when someone or
something splits open.
and then expect me to be ok
Maybe I am the narrow hot
line at the edge of the
visible spectrum, inching
towards invisible, bordering
on irrelevant. Understand:
anything can be red,
usually when someone or
something splits open.
and then expect me to be ok
February 1, 2021
Few are the poetry collections that serve agonising wall to wall bangers, from start to finish seizing you in the grip of its gravity and cruelly flinging you headfirst back out into your own black space, tears streaking behind you like the icy tail of a comet.
June 15, 2023
I loved this and in a way, it was exactly what I needed to read. With poetry it is usually either hit or miss and lately, I've read a few misses which this one wasn't. A lucky pick I'd say and very much recommended as well.
December 18, 2023
“But this is a supermarket, not a bedroom, and my cart is empty and I am wavering on the scuffed linoleum of the produce aisle, rubbing the skin of a pomegranate as if it were your hand.” Who let boygenius write a poetry collection secretly?
January 16, 2021
A heartbreaking collection poetry that uses the imagery and language of astrophysics to write about grief.
September 8, 2021
I don’t read a ton of poetry, and I picked this up because it was on the new release shelf at the library, and the cover was cool. So glad I did. Intelligent, gutting, vivid. Highly recommend.
November 22, 2022
What a beautiful book, with such surprising and nuanced imagery. As someone who has experienced a major loss, this really hit for me and is among my favorites. Elegy in the form of steam. <3 <3
January 7, 2023
Beautiful language, beautiful poems.
February 24, 2023
DNF 50%
I didn't connect with the content at all. It's very specific to something the author went through...😔
I didn't connect with the content at all. It's very specific to something the author went through...😔
June 6, 2023
The poems express an interesting combination of science, religion and grief in a cohesive collection
September 1, 2023
A breathtaking collection on grief and wonder
Displaying 1 - 30 of 33 reviews