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'LOVE POEMS'

Ian Parks was once memorably and rememberedly described as ‘the greatest love poet of his generation’, a phrase that never ceases to make me smile. While in real life he appears more like the gentlest and most softly-spoken of the Pirates of the Caribbean, I cannot help confusing his image with that of the chelonian Hugh Heffner, draped in young beauties naked beneath teasing fur wrappings.

Well he has well and truly slapped the smile off my face this time.

I have a theory that every artist is capable of one flawless work, one perfect expression of themselves. ‘LOVE POEMS’ is Ian’s epiphany, delivered more quietly than you can possibly imagine.

Whereas among the Hull Rumoured Cities circle T.F. Griffin armours his dejected heart under a carapace burnished to dazzle, Tony Flynn delivers intimate insights into a life tinged with kindly Catholicism, and Philip Larkin thrusts a double-stiletto simultaneously to both heart and head, Ian Parks modestly whispers his exquisite verse in precise awe of the ghosts of that which he transcribes.

His closest like among the poets who come to mind is Holly Roach whose ‘Plans to change and other fables’ proved a younger female version of Ian’s inimitably elegiac verse. Both are love poets and both seem almost to celebrate the shutting of the door over the ecstasy of an adventure newly embarked upon.

The difference between the two so far – beyond age and gender – is that Ian is also a master of public verse, the faithful alchemist of both trivial and tragic historical landmarks, one or two examples of which almost shockingly glide through here.

I hate to single out a single poem from ‘LOVE POEMS’ because they belong longingly together in one complete embrace, but creation is inevitably followed by desecration, and resists ….

Ghost

no answer satisfies.

at the bottom of a stair –

Or is it love returning

who loved us most?

Waking as dawn commences

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'The Cage'

If one were to suggest to most poets that they be considered for Poet Laureate, they would probably first check out the insult and then shudder at the thanklessness of the proposition - ask Andrew Motion who, after determined, stoic application to his honorary role over many years is beginning to chew carpets, apparently.

Ennobling an otherwise trivial event, such as some landmark Queen's birthday or Commonwealth Day bash, must be one of the most difficult (would it were impossible) responsibilities in literature.

However, I reckon that Ian Parks would be a genius at it.

In his collection of poems, "The Cage", he does not show much evidence of his being "the greatest love poet of his generation", as he was once described, because there are scant few love poems here (except the magnificent "The Gallery"), but his much-praised mastery of event and place is remarkable (and all his work is suffused with a loving tone of sorts). Anybody who can make a powerful poem of finding a sledge in his mum's cellar, as Ian does in "Sledge", can surely craft a landmark piece around, say, the nationalisation of Bradford & Bingley.

At this point, Ian Parks is probably thinking "Is this review taking the mick?", to which the answer is "Definitely not, Ian."

Take for instance "Body and Soul", his jazz evocation of Harlem clicking its fingers to the "shimmer'" of a Coleman Hawkins phrase, or his similar treatment of a pianist playing desultorily in a "Late Night Hotel", or his gossipy lament to the themed refurbishment of a pub in "The Figurehead".

Then there are there are the fond recollections of his father (in "The Cage") and his grandfather (in "Over The Top"), miners both.

Most strikingly (and in some cases that is a pun) there is a whole series of poems which reverently recall moments and things of historic significance, major and minor - a tribute to "Rosa Parks", "Salvage", "The Burning Pier" (Southend?), "Orgreave", "The March" (against the Iraq war), "The Angel of the North", "The Last Rising"(what happened in Newport? - my ignorance), "Gettysburg" (I can do that one), "Menwith Hill", "Vigil", "On the Post Office Steps", "The Occupation".

So, when Andrew Motion resigns his Poet Laureateship in frustration and despair, this is Ian Park's compelling CV. I think he should cream it (to keep the Hull association going). Finally here is a poet equal (and more) to such an awesome duty - the man in whose poems you can often hear a pin drop. There would be majesty indeed.

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'Shell Island'

Shell Island, Ian Parks's second full collection of poems, extends and develops concerns already present in his previous work: those of love, loss, and the relationship that exsists between the individual and society. Themes of encounter – particularly with the miraculous – and of the resonating quality of history are juxtaposed with a series of intense love lyrics.

The main preoccupation of the collection, however, is with the transitory nature of human experience and how that experience informs our perception of "the rule of love and politics".

“Reading a poem by Ian Parks is like hearing your name uttered in a public place: you hear it regardless of the background noise." – Peter Dale

"One of the bright new hopes of British poetry." – John Osborne, Bete Noire

“Ian Parks is the rarest of contemporary poets – a skilled versifier, respectful of his craft, and buoyed rather than weighed down by its tradition. These poems demonstrate a remarkable aural sensitivity and control; Parks is finely attuned to the landscape’s variance, its measured pulse, its echo and persisting memory. Here are sagacious, elegiac verses, at once visceral and tender, local and possessive of an organic unity: this is an impressive collection from an important poet.” – Ben Ramm