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chrislatray's review against another edition
5.0
A perfect start to the year's poetry reading. I particularly like the last section, the reflections on the years since the events of the first sections occurred; on the softening of hands, the memories, the quiet longing. This is the kind of thing I come to poetry for, and Prentiss delivers wonderfully.
katethekitcat's review
3.0
As a memoir-in-poems, this was…ok. There’s a tendency with free verse to take what could be a standard prose sentence, throw in a few line breaks, add some random piece of imagery as the final line, and hope it comes off and deep and impactful. Crosscut suffers more than a bit from that.
But.
But the thing is, I still love this poetry. When I first I stumbled on one of Crosscut’s poems excerpted in a magazine, it stopped me short with the recognition: I know this. The poem, “Museum of Hand Tools” – detailing the daily ritual of counting your trail tools to ensure none have been forgotten in the undergrowth – so perfectly spoke to the end-of-the-day rhythm of trail life, brought me so strongly back to when I had been in a similar place, that I knew I wanted to read the entire work.
I recognized so many small moments of my own time with a trail crew in this book, from buying boots to that particular forest reek that embeds itself in your tent and your skin. Prentiss captures the complexity of emotion that comes with trail work: the simultaneous cursing and loving your work and where you are; the strange grief and self-crisis that comes when you finally go back to the “real world” and wonder if you made the right choice. Reading this poetry was recognition that others have shared the nostalgia and the looking backward to that time spent in the wilderness, and for that, I will cherish this collection.
I don’t know if this work would speak as strongly to someone who has never been on a trail crew. But if you have, in a way, reading these poems is like coming home.
But.
But the thing is, I still love this poetry. When I first I stumbled on one of Crosscut’s poems excerpted in a magazine, it stopped me short with the recognition: I know this. The poem, “Museum of Hand Tools” – detailing the daily ritual of counting your trail tools to ensure none have been forgotten in the undergrowth – so perfectly spoke to the end-of-the-day rhythm of trail life, brought me so strongly back to when I had been in a similar place, that I knew I wanted to read the entire work.
I recognized so many small moments of my own time with a trail crew in this book, from buying boots to that particular forest reek that embeds itself in your tent and your skin. Prentiss captures the complexity of emotion that comes with trail work: the simultaneous cursing and loving your work and where you are; the strange grief and self-crisis that comes when you finally go back to the “real world” and wonder if you made the right choice. Reading this poetry was recognition that others have shared the nostalgia and the looking backward to that time spent in the wilderness, and for that, I will cherish this collection.
I don’t know if this work would speak as strongly to someone who has never been on a trail crew. But if you have, in a way, reading these poems is like coming home.
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