4. Ian Parks

A poet who appreciates good poetry, old and new, and has a singular ability to help others to develop their own appreciation of poetry and the ability to write it.

Ian Parks founded the Read to Write poetry group which has run in Mexborough and Balby for many years. He is the editor of Versions of the North: Contemporary Yorkshire Poetry and the Selected Poems of Harold Massingham. His versions of the modern Greek poet Constantine Cavafy were a Poetry Book Society Choice. His own Selected Poems 1983-2023 is published by Calder Valley Poetry. 

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Poems

Ferry Boat Halt
The Wiper
The Well
Jerry

Ferry Boat Halt

And then there was the time
my cousin rang me up
to tell me Duane Eddy was in town.
I’d catch him jamming in the Ferry Boat
if I moved quick enough.
I pulled my jeans on, crossed the tracks,

turned the street corner when I heard
the deep, distinctive twang
that set ten-thousand guitars quivering.
Except this was South Yorkshire not LA
and he was older, bent to his guitar
between one booking and the next

as if it was the only thing to do,
no amplification, no support
he’d called in on a quiet afternoon –
sat in the taproom with no fuss,
ordered a whisky without ice
and never came gain.

Wherever you are Eddy
I wish you an endless road
for the hour you spent in Mexborough
as the barmaid cleared away
and for the song you left for us
as you were passing through. 

<<<

The Wiper

I have the backseat to myself
although the tartan rug scratches my knees.
The rapid wiper sweeps across the screen,
obliterates a sudden wash of rain
that fills again with each successive wave,
the fine white line recedes

on what I know now is a motorway.
My mother pours hot oxtail from a flask;
my father hums the rhythm of the night,
it is The Bachelors I think, their song
about the long road leading home
and the smile of the girl like a guiding light –

but the radio is tinny, far away.
This is the final stretch of amber glow
before we reach our door
and soon the decade will remove its mask,
I’m at the very edge of sleep,
there won’t be many times like these.

<<<

The Well

They sank the well
before they built the house.
They built the house

before they made the lane.
Now well and house and lane
exists in close proximity

as if in waiting there for me
to turn up in the rain.
Two rotting shutters

keep the well secure
held by a padlock
and a rusted chain.

<<<

Jerry

The road began when you were five
in Ferriday one Sunday after church.
Your father showed you middle C –
the only lesson you would ever need
when something deep inside you came alive.

In Hamburg, at the Star Club, where you played
you slicked your hair back, flirted with the crowd
and hit the keys so hard
the owners thought they’d break.
We expected you to die before old age:

to exit on the beat and not to fade.
I saw you near the end with a white cane,
shambling from the wings onto the stage.
Waiting for your spirit to be freed
you soared above the chaos you had made.

<<<

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