Customer Reviews

Road Atlas

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Not being a poetry expert or critic of any sort I can't comment on whether McGrath's writing is "sloppy" or not. Frankly, I don't think it is, and the whole issue of whether or not it conforms to some accepted or proper format or "way-to-write-poetry" seems terribly unimportant to me. Substance means a lot more to me than style, and whether or not something speaks to me matters a lot more than then form in which it's said. So, questions of proper form aside, I'd just like to say that the writing in this book accomplished what I *think* poetry is supposed to do - it reached something deep inside me and spoke to it. I loved this book.

The joyous beauty of this slim volume lies not only in the words (although there is an abundance there) but in its spirit. Every few generations, America is blessed with a voice to sing its joys and sorrows. Not in the smug tones of advertizers, nor in the hollow praise of politicians, but in the honed voice of a moved, by wary, traveler across the land.This young (I presume) poet has already been compared to Whitman or Ginsberg. High praise, deserved, but off the mark.This is the voice---cautious but never cynical-of the poet'sown generation: people, places, lists of the wonders and enormities viewed not with arrogance but with wonder. Read them....and travel along.

"Road Atlas" is a fitting title for this wonderful collection as Campbell McGrath brings the reader on a journey through various settings, subjects, styles and forms, the pitstops and detours as fascinating as the racing straightaways. If "Spring Comes To Chicago" demonstrated McGrath's command of the Whitmanesque American epic poem, then "Road Atlas" shows his proficiency as a prose poet, a la James Wright. Word for word this is some of the most gorgeous and moving poetry I've read in a long time.

The poems in Road Atlas certainly brings to mind what Walt Whitman said about bad poems: "they drop horribly to the bottom of the pail."

If the poems in Road Atlas prove that Mr. McGrath is writing at the height of his powers we must believe that there can be no room for improvement. What is definite is that this book places McGrath in the most elite of America's Minor poets.

Why would someone write about boring places he or she visits? This book does not speak about the ordinary in any extraordinary fashion. The poems sag in the middle, wallow in cutesy voices, and do not reach any sort of epiphany. Who gave him his "poetic license"? It should have been revoked a long time ago.