15. 10. 2017 Robert Peake & Paul Stephenson will read new works from their new poetry books. Reading will begin 19hr at The Tennessee Bar = 2, rue André Mazet 75006 Paris, France.
Robert Peake is a British-American poet living near London. His full-length collection The Knowledge is now available from Nine Arches Press. His previous short collections include The Silence Teacher (Poetry Salzburg, 2013) and Human Shade (Lost Horse Press, 2011).
Robert grew up on the U.S.-Mexico border, in the small desert farming town of El Centro, California. He studied poetry at the University of California, Berkeley and in the Master of Fine Arts in Writing Program at Pacific University, Oregon.
His poems have appeared in a wide range of journals and anthologies including North American Review, Poetry International, Iota, Magma Poetry, Acumen, and The North. Robert’s essays and reviews have appeared in Poetry International, the Chicago Sun-Times online, and The Huffington Post. His own website consistently ranks as a top poetry blog.
Robert’s poems have received commendations in the Rattle Poetry Prize, the Atlantic Monthly Student Writing Contest, the 2007 James Hearst Poetry Prize, the 2009 Indiana Review Poetry Prize, the 2013 Troubadour International Poetry Prize, and three Pushcart Prize nominations.
Since relocating to England with his wife, Valerie and cat, Miranda in 2011, Robert has given a variety of readings in the UK. He also created the Transatlantic Poetry reading series to bring poets from both sides of the Atlantic together for live online poetry readings, and also built poet.tips–a crowd-sourced poetry recommendation website.
Robert offers one-to-one feedback and support through the UK Poetry Society Poetry Surgeries programme for the Hertfordshire area.
“I Was Born to Small Fish.”
-from a mis-translated line by Pablo Neruda
They fill the stream with dashes,
clot in dark collections by the bank,
a clutch of minnows sprayed
into life, like torpedoes
from a pregnant submarine.
And I am born unto them,
child of the sardine, goldfish,
pollywog—whatever can swim
in a thimble, dodge change
flipped into a fountain
I am not the son
of the marlin, the sturgeon—
the sunfish, around whom
jellyfish revolve like planets.
The smallest of fish
is sufficient to be my mother.
I am from this line of stream-
swimmers, gulf-swimmers, fish
at the mercy of eddies
and wakes, schooling together,
and bursting apart, confusion
and numbers our only defence,
this line, this arc—
through a shaft of light—
I call them “family” and
“comrades,” call them
my fish, small fish, birth-right.