Figures in the Landscape

One can picture this former gamekeeper in his native Staindrop “perched” on his rock, watching for the “wraith-like fox,” the “wheeling hawk”—or simply dreaming, “reluctant to lose this day.” David Parkinson is not only a man of nature, in love with “all slink and fur,” but a natural poet, a master of word-play. Like Thoreau, he sings of the simple life: “dirt under fingernails;” ”an enwrapment/of quietude.” The poems are lean and graceful, insightful and quietly intense; they sparkle and surprise at each line break. They reimagine the everyday beauties of life and make the reader see with fresh eyes.

           Nancy Means Wright

           midnight fires (forthcoming Perseverance Press, 2010)

           the great circus train robbery (Agatha Award Finalist)

One of the delights in reading David’s poems is to experience his diction. His choice of words range from plain-spoken to lilting; witty to bookish or regional; conversational to lyrical. He slips in poetic devices—and uses these devices in an unselfconscious manner without drawing attention to them. He achieves his goal of communicating clearly with his reader without obfuscating.

           Kathleen McKinley Harris

            former co-owner/editor The Champlain Courier

            The Wonderful Hay Tumble