Branches, Mark Truscott's first collection of poetry in more than eight years, gathers a series of lyric contemplations that revel in poetry's great task: to present thinking in language.
Careful attention reveals that, even in our least significant seeming moments, our minds are constantly navigating disjunctions among registers of experience. Our intellect silently reminds our eyes that the car that appears to be moving between leaves is actually behind them and much larger. The sound of the vacuum cleaner in the next room is noise to be ignored, because we are focused on what's beyond the window. The phrase that arises in our mind belongs to a conversation earlier in the day, not what we are now focused on. Clear thinking demands that these navigations remain unconscious. But what if they're meaningful, or productive, in themselves? What if they're necessary to help us find our true place in the world? Branches explores these questions.
Well written, but just didn't do much for me. There seemed to be something sterile about the poems. This could be about taste, on my part. I read so many amazing poetry books that in comparison, it was way down on my list of memorable books. The poet is definitely a word smith, but I need some spirit, if not feelings within the words. One poem that did stand out early was titled "Serial".