Christmas

Like a time machine

fashioned from a forgotten Frigidaire,

stored in the basement

covered by a dust laden sheet,

its lost ignition key 

recoverable only through 

some unfathomable emotion,

I pray I can still feel

Christmas.

With a heart as marred 

as an ancient cherub,

chipped, yet

still able to cry out;

like the shard of quartz

I once carried in my pocket

to amplify my joy, 

could something so

wholly magnificent 

still, now

be my heart’s

mantis in amber?

Peter Valentyne

December 2018

The Beautiful Feelings

"The cinema is the expression 

  of the beautiful feelings." 

           ~Jean Luc Godard

The beautiful feelings

always begin by taking

their leave,

as some things 

only become visible

by disappearing.

Like a scent of sadness

making the heart known,

in silence

both full and empty,

drained and restored,

an hourglass

recycling its own

memories of 

sand and salt.

The beautiful feelings

are like leaves that brighten

before dying,

then wither and surrender

to the wind.

Childhoods are played

in these leaves.

The smell of going away

still prickling in our noses

as cold air

often proceeds a goodbye.

In this way

everything is turned over

and sometimes

over turned.

The boy lets go

of the man

who burnished by

too much joy

sometimes

gives way to

a poet

who pauses, then

returns to raking

his warmest memories

of Summer.

Peter Valentyne

November 2018

Double Jeopardy

He started merely as a stand-in.

Though he parted his hair differently

he could easily pass for me.

No one seemed to notice.

In the beginning, so long ago,

he stepped in when

I just couldn’t cope,

or when things got especially dicey.

And yes, I was using him.

If you were to look closely,

the main difference between us

is his appearance of confidence.

That’s when you know

its him and not me.

At first it felt like fun.

Sending him in on dates

I was particularly inhibited by

or interviews for jobs

I was, frankly, unqualified for,

but still had my own ambitions.

But just because he looks

like me doesn’t make him me.

After so many years, even I

can barely tell us apart.

That’s when the dreaming

really began.

Dreams more real than not.

Am I dreaming his dreams or mine?

I even discussed them with a doctor,

how the dreams were growing

more real, more vivid

than anything I did in the daylight.

It was as though I had begun

to live two separate lives:

a nightlife and a day life.

And then there’s this half-life

In which I am furiously writing

in a notebook at 4:00 AM

while he still lays sleeping

drugged by two perilously pink Benadryl

So that I could have this time

to tell my truth.

It may be the only time

I’m sure I’m still myself.

When I think about my double,

I feel that I am not alone.

I’m sure there are others with doubles

going about doing

so discreetly

what needs to be done.

It is entirely too easy to continue

on a path that gradually divides

us and almost as impossible to stop

using him as I do

If only because I’ve begun to grow

tired. I’m barely up to things

generally and the game may be

draining, even zapping my stamina.

Now, the only time I feel at peace

is at times like this at early twilight,

the time before the dawn

over-takes the dark.

I wonder what he would think

if he knew I was writing this.

Trying to separate and further

distinguish myself from him.

After joining and merging

for what seems like a whole lifetime

like an old married couple

who still insist on their individuality.

Last year we acquired a cat

after our beloved dog died.

My dear Phoenix could tell

the difference between us.

He knew who was who.

So much for dogs being dumb.

The cat couldn’t care less

which one is me.

It was the heart attack

that nearly killed us both

save that he grew stronger

while I languished in spirit

let alone body.

It caused a further split

and he simply took over,

as my will was weakened

mourning the near loss of me.

While he continued…better for it;

my history in his pocket

like so much spare change.

And so he spends his time as me.

But now, lately, I’ve been 

gaining strength again

in small moments where

I insist on taking charge.

Quick aside:

The blinkering xmas tree lights

are making the cat nauseous. 

I really do love her.

The light is coming up.

I may not be able to sustain

this clarity. He’s sure to

want to take it from here.

What if he wants me out 

of the picture? But why?

When our perfect game

has seen us both through so many scrapes?

He’s sure to wake soon.

He’ll want my life back.

How absurd that sounds.

That I may no longer know which

is the double.

So let’s sort through this.

Which of us is stronger?

Who’s confidence is more alarming?

Who’s might be more refreshing? 

What if I’m fooling myself?

What does it say that I’ve

allowed him to live all this time as me?

When he plainly has his own

mysterious motivations.

Which of us has more consciousness?

Right now it’s me. 

Which of us is more loving?

I believe in God.

He believes in himself.

He knows how to get what he wants.

I don’t really. But I think

getting what you want

isn’t always the best thing.

I’m careful for what I want

while he wants everything.

I hear him stirring.

Peter Valentyne

November 2018

This Is How I Learned to Love

I made a door of my wound

and through that door

I pushed out all impurities

with the aid of invisible forces

who helped me disappear.

And via the door of that wound

I began to invite people inside

without the least discrimination

willing to share

in my atmosphere.

It became clear to me:

this is how I learned to love.

Now anyone can enter in,

my body a mere shell, a husk,

though cherished

as a child's carved pumpkin

lit by my heart’s last candle.

Peter Valentyne

June 2011

Visitation

He arrives anonymously;

an affable, unruly

 crowd of a man

bearing gifts tucked

on a humid summer day

in the inner regions

of a reindeer blazoned 

Xmas bag.

You feel five again

when he thrusts

towards you

a book artfully wrapped

in a scribbled paper drawing

done in black magic marker.

You may even feel 

as touched as he is

in the company of

this off-season

bi-polar Santa.

It isn’t long before

he reaches for Greek myths

with apparent authority,

then waxing werewolves

 ten minutes in, 

until one of him

comes forward to confess

his father disfigured him

as a child, but because incest

is as ancient as canabalism,

who is to say what is natural

and what is not?

To expand on Oedipus he will posit

that when a child is encouraged

to suckle his mother’s milk,

why then is that same child

scolded for behaving wildly?

Due to his multiple personality

 his demeanor will make you feel

you are alone in a crowd.

His talents are numerous

 and breathtaking.

Here, after all, is life unfettered

by artificial constriction.

His presence will likely stimulate

hundreds of ideas

which then will circle you

like a variety

 of ravenous 

animals.

In the bag he

brings his art.

But this is no

show and tell from hell,

though you may find

it a heaven

too brilliant to take in.

But try.

It’s best to allow

 his confused clarity

to reduce you to a twin idiocy.

He is magnificent

in his rapt repugnance

to what he considers

a culture of compromise.

Why aren’t you yourself

and how could you

have abandoned him?

Instead, he thanks you

for being kind

(if you are)

and insists you tell him if

anything he says is

too much for you.

He’s gentle that way.

It will become abundantly clear

that he brings his childhood

into every room.

If he proceeds to show you

a drawing he did of a cat

with a leering grin,

contemplate it’s countenance.

There’s truth in it.

It’s possible you may

 understand a cat

for the very first time.

If he says

 “I can’t be with cats.”

It is because he knows

they know

they can make him do

whatever they want.

Also in the bag

are b&w photos of where he’s lived

for many many years

before home became

an ark for artifacts

closing in on an already high ceiling.

There are even pictures

showing him dancing

in a coat of many colors;

if only we could insist

on being as true to ourselves.

This eternal glimpse,

has made it’s way to you

seductively through time

like an amorous angel

with no other reason

for doing so

than to remind.

He lives in a museum

of his making,

not a hoarder, but a curator

without enough space

for his curation.

In his world

even dehydrated magic markers

cannot be tossed

without ample hesitation.

In every way

he is simply much too much.

You may think you’re dreaming him.

Your end of the conversation

falls on perfectly attuned ears

like hollow words

failing to enter edgewise.

He is too interesting

for your own thoughts to matter.

Try saying something

that has never occurred to you before.

Something like:

“Have you ever meditated on a mandala?”

thinking that perhaps an infusion of symmetry

will harmonize him.

Did I mention how mirthful

he is as he insists on his rights

even when none are being threatened?

Now look at him, just for a second.

Forget your separateness.

You are him.

In this moment

you can feel his beauty.

And then,

his last words to you are:

“I am that I am.”

  

Peter Valentyne

February 2016

Arrival

(for Clementine)

I wait for you to appear;

you whose life I’ve

selfishly spared.

Your human mother lays dying

even as you lie prematurely buried,

shrouded in darkness

beneath my bed.

Not a sound, nor a glimpse

have I apprehended

as you bide your time

weighing your fear of trust.

Yes, it’s clear to me:

You must come first.

But what if you never come out?

What if this seed which sleeps

hidden beneath my sleep

refuses to take hold,

to sprout, and become

for us both

a new reason to live?

You’re having none of me

for now. But I know

how to wait.

I want to love you.

Won’t you give me that chance?

Now you are mythical;

appearing like a portent

wished for or not;

you are your own 

gentle or cruel genie.

How could you know that

losing all that you loved

has made you more like me?

You’re refuge in a life

that no longer exists

is pure poetry;

your smallness barely

adequate for so giant a will.

Peter Valentyne

March 2017

The Purification

For a long time
I was afraid

to be without desires.

After all, who would I be?

Who would I be

without my exquisite taste,

my opinions for and against?

A dying butterfly

drying in the sun;

Un-pin me

or turn up the flame.

In the end

I will be purified

by a new joy

hidden all along
within
a familiar grief.

Peter Valentyne

June 2010