North of Everything

Of all the stories that are told, there are none so poignant, so lovely and heartbreaking, as life. Just life, with its seasons and tides, with events little and large, with no particular narrative thread other than the threads of a life, spun, woven, tangled, and merged with others. The author captures this beautifully in a series of free-verse poems that sing the song of life.

What he doesn't capture is the voice of the boy whose poetry journal this is supposed to be. It's written in the first person, and this is a mistake, because the voice is that of an adult poet. The poems are sophisticated and beautiful, but there is no growth in ability, no reason given why this boy is writing in poetry, no connection between form and content. An unfortunate flaw in an otherwise lovely book.