Pruning Burning Bushes by Sarah M. Wells
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

This is the fourth book I’ve read by faculty/staff at Ashland University, the others being two by Stephen Haven (The River Lock and The Last Sacred Place in North America) and one by Peter Campion (The Lions). Each of these books has pushed my literary horizons, and I’ve enjoyed them.

Pruning Burning Bushes is a beautiful book, and of the four Ashland books I’ve read, it’s the one that I personally connected with most. I was reminded in some ways of the poetry of Luci Shaw and Linda Pastan, two other poets whose work I’ve enjoyed.

In these poems, Wells takes snapshots of her everyday experiences—-at the kitchen table, in the garden, at the playground—-and illuminates the unexpected significance of these moments. One of the best examples is her poem “Cascade Valley,” which you can read here. Since I have three daughters who I love to take hiking, this poem resonated in me.

Another aspect of Wells’ poetry that I appreciated is her use of sensory imagery. She knows how to awaken the imagination through the senses. For just one example, these lines from “Pancakes” make my mouth water and bring back memories of camping when I was a kid:

Grandpa stacked them seven high
with a dab of butter, all-you-can-eat
after a Friday night sleepover.
I cut the circles into even squares, drizzled
maple syrup on each spongy morsel,
soaked up sugar in each pore like memory.
I was ready to flip the cakes before the bubbles
popped—they never cooked fast enough—

but campground pancakes baked quick
and burnt easy over the fire pit. The recipe
for simplicity: add milk, shake and pour
out the weekend hitched to a pick-up truck.
We percolated coffee from rain
off the camper’s canopy,
burned all that sucrose on our bicycles
beneath the sugar maples.

She also knows how to use metaphor. Another of my favorites was “The Antique Rocking Chair,” a poem that describes the process of meticulous restoration—-and not just the restoration of a chair.

Away goes the ache of discoloration,
oil dissolved, original grains exposed.
Every crevice is cleansed, each abrasion

doctored with twine between the grooves,
brass-bristled brushes in each recess.
He sands away the raised grain, removes

the marks in the concave seat. With glue
that’s slow to set, the seat and arms are raised
and then the spindles and splat. It’s almost new,

the way the old has been removed. The carpenter
knows the chair won’t last without stain
and picks a distinguishing shade to bear the wear

of another century. It is set apart, protected
with three coats of clear wood finish. The rocker
holds the woodworker: it is finished.

And there is a lot more to this book. This is a thoughtful collection of poetry, and I hope to read more of Wells’s work in the future.

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