Daze of
Radical Melancholy

(for Jim Kelly)

Sunday mornings are

for staring into space.

Days now feel

derived from the dreams

of an unreliable narrator.

Nights, less fatalistic.

An autistic friend

says that Tuesday’s full moon

should slow down

the death rate from the virus.

When I ask where he’d heard that,

he said “it was on the news”.

Maybe autism is

the new magical thinking.

These days
I can no longer attribute 

what I say or think 

as coming from

inside myself.

I'm letting the virus
change me.
I'm letting go

of my fear of being the fool.

Truth is, I only want to be true.

In my short play “STRAW”

a scarecrow pleads with a man

to trade places with him

because the very thought 

of a windswept field

makes him want to weep.

Like him I live with a memory 

of inaccessible beauty,

a holy thing

that cannot be erased.

Tormented by the things

I find beautiful,

I put on the ragged

hand-me-downs of fate.

This morning, the discovery of

 a tear stain on the mirror

has convinced me 

of the sadness 

of my own reflection,

regardless whether
they are mine or his.
Apart from our living
in identical rooms,
my life is still my own.

On Palm Sunday

the line to enter the local Walmart

was two blocks long at 7:15 AM.

Everyone wore face masks,
a winding haphazard caravan
of empty shopping carts,

the shoppers palms
anxiously clutching 

the chilly metal bars
as they wound past
the $9.95 flower pots
with their purple promise
of early Easter.

Even as the deaths
are now reported

only by the numbers

as if dying were

a grotesque calamity,

the less said the better,

I say death is beautiful

no matter how it arrives,

sacred like anything

one of a kind;

the one true thing

one can own.

And then you died
helping another neighbor
and my broken heart
sprouted the first
true crocus
of everlasting Spring.

Peter Valentyne

April 2020 in the time of Corona

The Quiet Part Out Loud

The world as we knew it 

stopped today 

as though after

always having turned right,

it now turns the other way.

Things that grew by light

now evolve in shadow.

The flowers have agreed

 to grow regardless, 

glad of our absence. 

From now on

the dogs will feed us

in lieu of our tricks

both bacchanal

and banal,

but for a bone

rather than sticks.

I take up painting stones

to pass the time away,

as clocks are no longer

in need of my service.

Left to our own devices,

we’re allowed to be right

only twice a day.

I should have known

my nightmares 

were in preparation

for emotions 

I never thought I’d feel.

I’m like a bird

caught in a room.

I keep flying

into the mirror

as if it’s space 

were real.

I should never have

taken my twin 

for granted

as now he’s 

up and foresaking me

and recanted

along with any pre-natural 

penchant for rhyme,

without me he’d hardly know 

what to do with his time.

They say we all have it

whether we know it or not.

Even if we don’t know we have it

we can still give it to others…a lot.

Maybe this is after all…

all from a bump on the head.

If hindsight is twenty twenty,

why couldn’t we have contracted

joy instead?

I recently read a piece

on the poet Keats.

It said he aspired

to what he called

negative capability.

When one is

capable of being

in uncertainties,

mysteries, doubts,

without any 

irritable reaching

after facts and reason;

perhaps this is, afterall,

that preeminent season.

Peter Valentyne

April 2020 in the time of Corona

Nocturnal 

Transmissions

I wake homesick 

for another world,

even as 
yet another world 

let itself in

via the t.v.

to taunt me,

both Trojan horse

and 

cave of shadows,

trotting out

it’s patter-song 

of brutal banalities.

I vow 

to make a pyre.

Outside, the cold 

clamors to get in

as I lie threatening

to push the bed 

up against the door

like a junked cradle 

that bringeth

no comfort.

After last night

I've become determined 

to ignore everything
that is not me

and give the memory

of you

my full attention.

But you 

fade so fast.

 How can I keep

you with me

when even my

own name is

no more than

a makeshift mask

barely concealing 

the sins

of the world

as my own, if 

only by osmosis.

I yearn to learn

the life-saving

 art of overlooking,

but out of

what troubling

necessity? 

Un-prepared to 

take on the burden

of too much 

reconciliation,

I wrest

and dis-own my own

 mercurial evidence.

I confess I

prefer my trials

under the cover 

of night 

where I can

 be blameless,

free from the bondage 

of belongings,

blissfully

unaware 

I am

the smoking gun

of my own longing.

By living a nightlife

made of

knee-jerk reactions,

a collective psyche 

is hardly a tyranny 

I can count on 

waking from.

After giving 

this morning

the ole’ college try, 

I end up crying

while doing crunches,

an un-arranged marriage

between my
weakness and strength.

No, this is how

I build the stamina

to see you again.

Had no angel

appeared last night
let alone

replete in a tattered 

wife beater

with the words 

WAKE UP

emblazoned across it’s chest,

(in white cotton

no less!),

I might never

 have known 
we were married.

By making love

with a phantom,

I’ve come to accept

my body’s weeping.

True, my mornings are

versed in mourning,
all because of our

reversed metamorphosis

by way of a dream; and

the inevitable evaporation 

of your wings.

Peter Valentyne

2020 in the year of Corona

Love in the Time of Corona

I woke up at 4:00 AM 

determined to make something. 

I got up because I had 

to give art it’s chance to heal. 

Though nothing I do is uncreative, 

it feels as though I am 

married to the world 

solely to love and be loved. 

Yet the world lies asleep in its bed. 

Or so it seems.

How do we go about our days 

sans business as usual? 

My habits feel like shadows 

without a source of light. 

And so I vow to change my ways. 

I am looking into how 

to make a flower from scratch. 

I am my own bit of earth. 

Must everything have a wretched fate? 

The artist always says no. 

I don’t want to get up, 

I want to rise.

 Am I interesting enough to be spared? 

I want to be worth living.  

I began this odyssey 

with a bout of spring cleaning...

unearthing several forgotten treasures. 

A photo of my mother 

as a pretty young girl. 

A nude self portrait in colored pencil. 

A blank unused journal.

My cat, keeps kneading the armchair 

as though desperate for milk. 

I too wish for milk from a chair. 

I’m struck by her dance 

in this strange trance state. 

What do I do like that? 

Where am I so unconscious and why? 

Familiarity breeds contempt, 

but I barely feel it. 

I want to wake up...

but in such a scary time. 

What a fine time to come to my senses! 

But I know waking will make a difference. 

Here in my home of carefully arranged junk

in hopes of becoming content and unafraid. 

My cat is my shepherd and I shall not want.

Our lives are without rules 

though full of laws, I think

this illness must mean something. 

But so far it is like a forest in a film, 

provocative even as it smells of nothing. 

The old ways no longer suffice. 

So now, every morning, 

I go in search of Easter 

to make my days worthwhile. 

Why then do I feel 

locked inside an unnatural history museum? 

I want to make a stunning new thing 

and call it “Today”. 

But first I have to reckon, 

no grapple, with the old ways as

they no longer work in the here and now. 

The usual balms have lost their salt. 

Is this room nothing more than a body 

held together by standing so still?

I want to trade in my television for a God. 

I want to go pagan in an unfurnished room 

where a potted plant

is a much needed nod to all that is wild.

I put the picture of my mother 

in a frame so she can’t desert me. 

The kitchen sink is a Walden’s pond 

I can barely make out my reflection in. 

So I start to write...

each line requiring an open heart surgery. 

My first and last hope is to recover. 

Can one get salt water from a tap? 

I must make something out of this nothing. 

A cake from homemade flour. 

I want to die by a river, not a faucet!  

I don’t want to get up...

I want to rise. 

I want an art that will 

save me with its urgency. 

And save us all as well.

Peter Valentyne

St. Patrick’s Day 2020

"Perhaps poems allow for the descent and the ascent.
Perhaps that is their secret balm."

                                            ~Deirdre Jacobson

ORDER ON AMAZON

https://www.amazon.com/How-Live-What-You-Know/dp/1543988482

⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ 

---

First Review by Amy Raines for Amazon Publishing

Through times that make one question life and its very

being and thoughts of knowing love when we feel like

the unlovable, Peter Valentyne has put these moments

of emotion into in his poetry in How To Live With What 

You Know. Moments of questioning God, Earth, love,

prosperity, and joy in the face of life’s trials can hold

much more than their supposed final decree. Does life

have to remain sinister when certain events shake us

to our core? Can we find purpose and meaning in the

depths of life’s greatest questions? Can we cope with the 

unanswerable riddles without coming undone? With living

comes wisdom but sometimes that wisdom is hidden;

we have to look past simple events to find out what we

really know about living.

The poetry in How To Live With What You Know by

Peter Valentyne will make the reader ask and answer

questions that lead to more profound reasoning about

life and existence. I love the straightforward way

 writes his poems. There is no essential need for endless 

rhyme schemes or perfectly-sized stanzas when the

words evoke deep and passionate emotions from the

reader. I can honestly say Valentyne’s way of questioning

the core of reality and existence is nothing like anything

have ever read. Among all of these brilliant poems, my

absolute favorite is Everyday Life Of A Hand Mirror.

simple title betrays the deep resonating meaning of

people getting so caught up in their own conceited view

that they refuse to see what is happening in the world

them like zombies via reflection. I recommend How To 

Live With What You Know to anyone who loves poetry

that resonates away from the cliche of rhyme and verse.

I hope that Valentyne has many more collections

of brilliant poetry to share with us in the future.

Deep and insightful. Layers of thought-provoking, deep, insightful and philosophical poetry ! A must read !                                                                                                 ~Melanie
Having never been an avid reader of Poetry, I wasn't sure what to expect when this collection appeared! I usually found most to be self indulgent or pretentious, never finding any that spoke to me. Mr. Valentyne's work is something i couldn't imagine in my wildest dreams!! But he did in his and i've been moved to tears and exhilarated. After several readings, I still can't find a favorite. The writing here is exquisite, illuminating, inspirational and moving. Peter Valentyne has given us a gem to treasure. It is a must have!! I'm looking forward to much more!                                                                                                  ~Barnet
A Wonderful Poetic CollectionPeter Valentyne's poetic voice is a profound and revelatory treasure of dream and waking ruminations on life and living. His poetry stimulates the reader to examine his own being and offers continuing pleasures with each re-reading. A wonderful and rewarding collection indeed.                                                                                      ~David

NOTE: Your comments would be much appreciated. Please share them at:               Petervalentyne@yahoo.com

More poems can be accessed by pressing the OLDER POSTS tab at the bottom of the page.

The Pedestrians

When will we realize
that fears and insecurities
are imperfect signs of 
a latent goodness
that lead us
to empathy?

Because you had 
not sinned,
I thought you were good.
You were not good.
You were fearful,
unimaginative,
moral,
young. 

Those who think
themselves superior
are in fact, inferior.
Who said that,
Pythagoras?
Regardless,
I caution you.
Like judges
who only follow 
other judges rules,
they can only follow;
their’s is a borrowed
conviction.

My dreams keep 
my ear pressed
to hallowed ground,
that I should be first
to hear
the rumblings of hooves
in the event of
my own private
apocalypse.

But for now,
the rarity of last night’s
pleasant dream
has caused me 
to retrace my steps.
I hadn’t more or less to drink.
No undigested bit of meat.
I hadn’t watched a particularly
potent film before bed.
But dreams aren't
made of facts,
though the fact
that I dream
gives the world 
such invaluable weight.

Clocks stop at 12:00,
So let us consider 13:00.

I don’t know 
if you’ll receive this 
or even respond. 
Poetry is hardly earth shaking
until it is. 
But I did want 
to say not to worry.
There’s nothing 
for you here. 
Only the
existential musings 
of a 
poetic heretic. 
Nothing you would relate to 
or appreciate. 
I’ve learned over the years 
that when people close doors 
by way of inexperience 
and judgements
they seal themselves off 
from discovering
what's truly vital
in the world. 

Even so,
I hope you find your
long sought-for pleasures 
(sensual or otherwise) 
rewarding 
and your judgements 
protect you 
from the unmistakable stain
of enlightenment. 
Stay safe and above the fray! 
For Truth and Beauty 
are typically
the first and last
lovers
to be 
relinquished.


Peter Valentyne
February 10th, 2020