Sudden Prose Reprints: Peter Riley's Greek Passages (Shearsman, 2009), seventh and final selection

Here is the seventh and final prose poem from Greek Passages: 

Bright sunlight, sharpening the edges of the house, the blazing secret of it, the day. / A reason for coming here. And gathering messages from petals on the stony hillsides and the feathers of birds in flight, and small moths hesitating on grass stalks. / The hopes and fears of peoples, cast on the sea shattered into particles of light

You can purchase the collection directly from the publisher here.

Sudden Prose Reprints: Peter Riley's Greek Passages (Shearsman, 2009), sixth selection

Here is the sixth prose poem from this admirable collection I wanted to share: 

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(3) Dear Rough Guide, Some of the eating places you recommend in Plaka are little more than dens of food bandits. One you don’t mention is Kapnikaréa, tucked away in a corner of the square of the same name. They don’t give the stuff away but it’s good food at reasonable prices for the area, casual, friendly, and seems to have impromptu live bouzouki music from about 2 p.m. / People doing things well. If you can’t find it in poetry look for it somewhere else.

You can purchase the collection directly from the publisher here.  

Sudden Prose Reprints: Peter Riley's Greek Passages (Shearsman, 2009), fifth selection

Here is the fifth prose poem from Greek Passages I wanted to bring to a wider audience:

I lie in bed dreaming the street plan / corners of dark northern towns, complex of small back streets I can’t quite remember / My mother held my hand at the street edge / long ago, and we had our thin riches / there too, the future sailed up the bay as the potential, it seemed, of the entire land / held in the local hand // I dream this. Sound outside, swishing / of trees in gusts of wind / the red earth under the sky’s black cloak / That I should come so far from such streets / rejoicing in the same fear.

You can purchase the collection directly from the publisher here.

Sudden Prose Reprints: "Sunday, with the television off" by William Letford

Sunday, with the television off

I think of the future. My death bed. I imagine the man I will be. Then I pay that man a visit. Ask him, what would you do?

So I leave the car and walk across town. Knock on my father's door to say hello and listen to his stories, the ones I've heard before.

It's like I've travelled in time. Now he knows that someone is listening. On the way home, the sun falls behind the buildings, and I walk into a supermarket.

William Letford
Bevel (Carcanet, 2012)


My thanks to Carcanet Press for permission to use this poem. You can buy Bevel directly from them here.