photo by Kym MacKinnon (unsplash)
Three of Peter’s poems first published in a now defunct literary magazine called ‘Anima’. Issues 4 – 2017 and 5 – 2018
The Fish-Eye Lens of Death You cannot see the world without some form of distortion. It wraps around your head mysteriously – half of it unsure and held only in memory – it is a second gone by and anything can happen, especially in that blind spot of unnecessary coordination. You cannot see the world from any other place than where you are, even with technology – certainly not – that would always be suspect and unsure. It would likely be awash with trickery and invention. No, you cannot see the road behind your back, or those leaving as you turn. The world makes you nervous that way – makes you squirm, until you rest in the fish-eye lens of death. Then, with closed eyes you are blind to nothing. ©2016 Peter Hague Walking on Water If I could walk on water, would I be a fool to think it was more than just tears beneath my feet? That kind of skill never leads to very much, like magic – its praise is never quite complete. It will always seem a trick to some and you would never gain their trust. A true messiah would be an ordinary man, whose wisdom leaves such elaborations out – especially potential feet of rust. If I were walking on water now, I would be standing in a similar room, on a similar street, in a similar gloom, with a similar, tear-stained carpet at my feet, and the warm blood of my own grail hidden in defeat. This carpet is a map of things to bear, with ripples instead of wear and tear. I could distract myself and dance with castanets. I could allow fishermen in to cast their nets. But I would probably move myself on then and start the process once again – to summon an angel with a single click… or just to hang this dripping carpet out and beat it with a stick. ©2016 Peter Hague Out in the Estuary I have the mind of a swollen river. It has become brown and dirty these days – scrubbing at its banks with a rebellious message; whispering with insidious lips. It keeps me awake and makes no sense – washing at the roots of established trees, but I will not sign up to being part of the sea. I am a river – and between these falling shores I have set myself free. I will languish in mud and bide my time, with an old, broken boat and other debris. I have an enlightened opinion of my rippling life and let it pass into the blur it must be, but I will not follow that dilution into the sea. I need no details of waves and tides and have come to a halt in a soothing sludge. I am the torrent of spring that never was – I have seen too much and blessed it by and I am frozen like Lot's wife – looking back at the fresh water of new beginnings, yet undeniably tasting of salt. ©2016 Peter Hague Wolfpack Contributor: Peter Hague 5 poems from “Gain of Function” by Peter Hague Book Review: Peter Hague “Summer With the Gods” A Fevers of the Mind Quick-9 Interview with Peter Hague
Fevers of the Mind 
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