FAIRBANKS — Poetry is one of the most difficult forms of writing to review. There are no plots or story lines to analyze, no characters to dissect or diagnose. And poetry is so subjective — what I may really like, other readers may really loathe. Sometimes, poems I really like one day I literally hate the next day. And some of my favorite poets don’t always hit their marks.

Even within a collection, I can like one poem, hate another, be so-so about a third. In the same poem, this line can really resonate, that line make no difference, another cause physical pain. It makes no sense, honestly. And if I can’t explain it to myself, how then can I explain it to you? Why would any sane person even try?

I know what you’re thinking. “Dude, poetry is sooo lame. It’s incoherent. It’s just a bunch a words tossed onto a page that don’t have no relation to nuthin’ and no meaning.”

But it shouldn’t be. Good poetry — and by that I mean well-written poetry that speaks to us for generations — is coherent, has meaning and relevance, isn’t just words tossed about in hopes they stick somewhat close together.

I could cheat in my review. Throw out generic statements: “Breathtaking phrasing.” “Honest emotion.” “Good use of syntax.” I’ve actually read poetry reviews like that. It made me wonder: Did they really read the book? Or did they just read the back cover and go from there? And if so, what’s the point? Why bother? Why did the poet bother to drip his or her blood onto a pen and agonize over the exact right word, the exact right order of words? Why did they forgo sleep, food, joy, life, to get that thought out on paper for all the world to see?

Such dishonesty cheats the reader of discovering for him- or herself the joy of exploring a new planet, for finding a poet one has never read and seeing life through another’s eyes is like discovering a new world. Gretchen Diemer’s “Between Fire and Water, Ice and Sky,” shows a poet with a rich command of our native tongue using it in ways many of us have forgotten it can be done, while at the same time never getting “high-falutin’” or uppity with it. Like any good poet, she paints pictures with her words, shows us the scene she sees before her, giving us a chance to see it as well, albeit it a little differently, because, really, we can never, ever see things exactly as someone else does. But it sure is fun to try.

Diemer is not a native Alaskan, having grown up in northern Wisconsin. She found herself in Montana at the age of 12. She studied at the University of Seattle, where she earned a Masters of Fine Arts and teacher certification. That led her to the Alaskan village of Noorvik, St. Paul Island in the Pribiloffs, and the Mat-Su School District, where she is now.

Diemer writes poetry about Alaska, because, after all, what about this great place isn’t inspiring? But she also writes poetry about things that non-poets might not see as poetry material, such as history, tragedy, mundane everyday chores, and uninspiring everyday common unbeauty, like weeds and bare dirt. For Diemer, everything is fair game for the poet’s pen, and she treats all with equal opportunity.

She speaks to you, not down to you. She opens up her heart and soul, asking you to see but not begging, not ordering, caring but not. It’s a good place for a poet to stand – because it intrigues us – why is she so calm, so cool? Why does she not care that we care? What does she know that we don’t? Maybe we should take a look …?

And before you know it, you’re at the end of the book, wondering why you never liked poetry before.

Two themes emerge from Diemer’s poems: the first is the image of rising into the sky as an escape from the ground, which seems to stand as a tether or chain. The escape is made either with wings through flying or as smoke or dreams drifting away. It’s uplifting (no pun intended, really) and ethereal.

The second theme I noticed was one of nature juxtaposed against man, with most man-made objects or concepts on the negative side of the scale, especially in the poems dealing with war. But she’s not heavy-handed in her message, although she groups her war poems at the end, so the message is repeated over and over, and the reader can’t help but get the point.

Normally, when reviewing poetry, the reviewer quotes a few lines of some of the poems, to get the reader salivating, wanting more. But Diemer’s poems are so intertwined in themselves that pulling one or two lines out of context is really difficult — I’d have to explain the whole poem, which kind of negates the concept of quoting a few lines, or print the whole poem, which kind of negates the whole concept of quoting a few lines. I found one, though, that I was able to pull one stanza from, which gave me an image that made me smile, maybe because I am owned by a former sled dog. From the poem “Man and Dog Dreaming,” the line:

“A beautiful dog emerges from between the spindly bodies of the willow trees/ running effortlessly with the parachute of his tail drawn out behind him”

You’ll have to read the book to finish the poem and read the rest. Trust me, it will be worth it.

Libbie Martin is a freelance writer who lives in Fairbanks. She can be reached at martinlibbie@yahoo.com or 347-2422.