"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

The Uninhabitability
of Yesterday's News

We’d be fools

to reduce

the stars to

poetic constraints,

and the moon

could do worse

than go on

highlighting 

our lives

from afar,

swooning

half hearted, 

chock-full of

unwarranted envy,

yet, yesterday

I came across

the meaning

of the Greek word

for metaphor,

simply put:

“to carry”,

and

because my mind

is a tongue

unable to leave  

a wound in

the mouth

alone,

my thoughts

probe the roof

of their cave

like a blind worm

impatient for 

flight.

Aren’t you

flummoxed by 

the self same
riddle?

 Finding

yourself

 feeling the unthinkable

as though you'd

previously

behaved a

perspective tourist

incapable of

summoning

your own

history’s

native tongue.

I’m sure of 

this:

we mustn't let go

of a single 

opportunity 

to love,

like the dog

I adored

who'd never

chosen to leave me
on his own,

practiced as he
was

in negotiating
my shadow.

I ask you:

If molecules 

cannot be destroyed,

only transformed,

how then are

any of us

different

from the 

snowmen

being

slowly undone 

by the sun?

The coal, 

the carrot,

the scarf;

mere

souvenirs of

temporary

selfhood.

Time

now appears

 a slippery slope

and I am

clinging again

to my sled,

swooshing

downhill toward

the origin

of all things,
heart beating

with imaginal wings

against 
the wood slats

of my first
and only

Fearless Flyer.

Who’d have thought 

growing old 

could have us

feeling like

children again,

tooth tethered to

a door knob,

forced to

improvise

our first act of

self preservation:

the stopping 
of time.

It would take

the rest of our lives

to master

anything  

so wistful.

Who could help
revisiting

that brazen act of

suspended imagination
even in the

here and now,

tethered to 

the past

by the thread

of a kite

cobbled out of

yesterday’s

uninhabitable 

news?

Peter Valentyne

December 12th, 2019

Poetry Is Not What You Think

by Peter Valentyne

Poetry is not what you think, but rather what you feel. Though it’s true, thoughts do come into one’s head that may be poetic, I would argue the mind is no poet as it is secretly masturbatory by nature and while often appearing reverential is in fact lacking in both love and luminosity. The mind is an aristocracy which takes pride in being the ego’s closest confidante. The mind is neither present nor conscious as it’s nature is receptacle, content to go on chewing undigested things to distraction, and rarely to the point of spitting them out! The mind is a notorious slave owner, consumed by a tendency towards patriarchal empowerment. It would like nothing more than a leg up on Life itself…let alone it’s fellow players. The mind is always fencing in the courtyard flanked from head to foot in armor. But armor is not amour. To be a poet and to write great poetry, one must be naked, shun tyranny, exposed, open, and vulnerable. Therefore every poem I write is something of a nude scene. Every image a closing in; a close-up cloaked in buoyant resignation to bare my soul for whomever may crack the door or lift the lid. What kind of reader are you? 

The mind cannot love, therefore, it compensates by amusing itself. If your mind is authoring your poetry, or for that matter, living your life…overthrow it immediately. The mind is a follower that is determined to lead. It shamelessly lives to take the throne.  

Poetry is meant to fall on centers other than the mind. Poems are rarely composed in literal language. More often they are in the cryptic dialect of dreams. If they have nuance, they cast shadows and honor the opposites pulling us toward or away from battle, only to find ourselves a civil war! This is called fighting the good fight.

One could safely say that most Americans dislike poetry, or at least are indifferent to it. We live in an age of prose, of journalese, and advertising jingles. Poetry, the most directly indirect, mysterious, condensed, and passionate form of communication, is about as American as socialism or not shopping. Unlike television, texting, or scrolling the Internet, it demands concentration; that alone makes it suspect. Add silent, calm surroundings and a contemplative mind, and you can forget it. Silence, the holy spirit of true thought. has become an endangered species and is slowly disappearing from our midst. How, for example, could a noisy mind hovering in a technological jangling begin to grasp these lines from Federico Garcia Lorca’s poem New York?

The mountains exist. I know that

And the lenses ground for wisdom.

I know that. But I have not come to see the sky.

I have come to see the stormy blood,

the blood that sweeps the machines onto the waterfalls,

and the spirit onto the cobra’s tongue.

So as I find myself in middle age with a book of poems to foist upon what feels like an indifferent populace, the passionate artist in me wishes I could reinvigorate the form or even re-invent it, if it would only lead to breaking through to an inconscient world. Or would it be more effective just to place my poems on a pyre to opine their brightness in order to feel their heat on the face of another? 

Honestly, a lot of poetry feels like sheer indulgence. If I don’t promptly turn away by replacing the book back on the shelf, I stay a moment to see just how shameless or wanton “the poet” may become. At least some portion of human nature is being revealed. But it hardly nourishes my heart and soul, which is where poetry has the most power and influence. It’s the difference between elevator talk and elevating being. One is earthbound while the other is mysteriously unearthed! 

Imitating the Creator

The creator is a writer, yes, but the writer is also a creator.  The writer uses words to create worlds, just as God spoke the world into being during the six days....Creation through language is not a one-time event but the enterprise of all writers and poets throughout time.

The notion of the poet creating a world through language lies at the heart of Coleridge's 'Kublah Khan,' a poem about words and worlds and the struggle to write.  In his preface, Coleridge explains that he wrote the poem one night after he fell asleep reading about Xanadu....He woke with a poetic vision of the palace, which he set about writing down, but he was interrupted by a visitor and forgot the lines.  The poem seeks to depict the glory of Xanadu while also capturing the poet's despair at his inability to recreate that 'stately pleasure dome' in words. The vision fled and the words eluded him, so the poem remained merely, as Coleridge put it, 'a fragment.'

Coleridge was devastated that he could not put his vision of the palace into language.  He longed to recover the dream of the dome and the cave, but it remained as evanescent as a passing shadow, a vanishing cloud, a fleeting dream.  But he captured that failure in language, and his own shortcoming became an inspiration for generations of writers. 

I recently read that“According to the rabbis of the Talmud, the world was created on Rosh HaShanah.  As we proclaim in the liturgy of the day, 'Today is the birthday of the world.'  And so it seems appropriate that on Rosh HaShanah we think about what if means for us to be creators, and what prevents us from engaging in creative work.  God knows what is in our hearts, but sometimes what is in our own heart eludes us, and it becomes all too easy to run away from the difficult work of identifying what we were uniquely meant to contribute to the world.  May the One who creates and understands all hearts teach me to understand my own, so that I might begin again.”

Catharsis

One of Rumi’s poems unequivocally states: You must change your life. The line is both an epiphany and a mystery un-garbed in a single  sentence. The very vagueness of it’s implication allows the reader, whoever they may be, to interpret the edict in his or her own way as both a revelation and a starting point. In my own poems I feel I am always aiming for catharsis large or small. And I would add that a small catharsis can help further us gracefully towards greater well-being. 

Now let me get off my high horse and get real. Life is mysterious. Try pinning it down, start labeling, and it morphs and escapes our expectation. Try philosophy and you find yourself treading on lilies. Nothing like a flower needs your science. The greatest things often have no reason for being. Poetry will never be a utility. Beauty, however, is not unnecessary…though it may be lived without. That said, if the worst of our trials and tribulations could be deemed beautiful….pain and sadness would lose it’s sting. Only a poem could show you what I mean without being an outright sermon. 

What's a Metaphor?

Did you know that life
is made more tenable
by the simple use of a proper metaphor?
 When in the throws of trying times,
unlike a mirror's more pedestrian rhymes
this simple act of magical thinking
could give your psyche a fresh new inkling.

By combining distance with reflection
metaphors can alter one's circumspection.

My own diary is

artless yet elegiac; 

a place for synonyms
to mingle with verbs.

Suffice it to say

swapping

 "like" for "as",

has brought closure

to so many of my words.

You see
this way there's
less a chasm between
the implicit and the implied,
revealing a surprising comparison
between two things
rarely found
side by side.

For instance I liken my emotions
 to what I see up in the sky,
dark clouds equal frustration,
red horizons make my heart sigh.

I am guilty of thinking

(dare I leave it at that?)

surely an argument

can be made for favoring

metaphorical over literal fact.

Take the fundamentalist

searching for the ark

at the bottom of the sea

or mistaking Moby Dick

for the whale that swiped Jonah

right out of his family tree!

I confess

I'm desperate
to find meaning

in the world at large,

though I'd rather not
reduce the stars

to poetic constraints,
well, maybe just
Pluto and Mars.

On the subject of the heavens
I offer this word

of consternation:
I have found that

that which goes

unexamined

does tend

towards constellation.

So taking these thoughts

to heart

I examine their meaning

with glee.
Case in point:  though I am

the black sheep of my clan,

I'm neither black

nor am I a sheep!

Metaphors bring

the unrelated together,

I think you can plainly see,

it's how one conjugates a royal rift

and I don't mean

with the royal "we".

Take for example

a well rounded snow man,
formed simple for the sake of fun.

His carrot, coal and scarf;

props of a sentence being
slowly undone by the sun.

Aren't we all made

of that same holy water
transmuted from

sea to sky?
What is a metaphor
if not a child's eye view
born in a snowman's eye.

Peter Valentyne
October 29th, 2019

Godliness

I 

long 

to write 

a poem 

that

disentangles

me 

from the 

world.

To turn away

from grasping,

yet not

spare the lamb.

Has a poem

ever been 

born

without
something

being

ravaged?

What if

we are
meant
to be

our own

sacrifice?

Look how 

close 

the words

sacred and scared

and scarred

are.

Some

are lamed early

by the very

forces that will
bring about

their strength.

They discover
the secret.

To curb one’s desire 

so to quench 

the soul’s thirst

(despite our being 

made of

two thirds
water),

brings 

godliness

with or without

a God.

Still

we resist

being solved

and 

there’s no

solving others;

our natures

are

too fluid.

I’ve taken

to stuffing 

stones in

my pockets

 for fear

of floating

upward to
some second
surface;
another canvas,

yet our own.

Why,
when my art

is here?

Consider the bird,

or cat,
or catbird;
any animal

who has no choice

but to be where

the fates

have fixed it,

in other words:

where we

find ourselves.

Only an orphan

knows by

a lack

of experience

how kindness

is what 

it takes

to make

a world

a home.

In the city,

my nature

now 

seems 

remnant.

A red leaf 

under foot

goes

unnoticed,

whereas the

smashed pigeon

in the middle
of the road

is so startling

that it might

as well be

God’s

signature;

 a quill

dipped in 

it’s own blood.

But 

the heart 

knows things

the mind

can’t fathom.

For instance;

it's what
one

does after

being dashed
to bits

that holds the most

weight.

Peter Valentyne

October 19th, 2019

Agency

My favorite memory was nature.

I still remember this

from the time

before I was chosen

for indoctrination.

A time before my instruments

were trained on beauty,

before I discovered

I could make my own 

weather.

Since then, 

everything I’ve done,

I’ve done as an agent

on an urgent mission,

under my own surveillance,

employed by an agency

that has never revealed itself.

I receive messages 

via what is likely an implant

buried in a head of cabbage.

Plucked from obscurity

as an abandoned child

and trained by calamity

(I was once made to eat

my own vomit),

Still, I never talked.

My nervous breakdown at 17

saw me sever ties with any hope

for a normal life.

All my experiences became assignments.

When I uncovered love

(or did love uncover me?),

I was already working for the agency.

The slightest show of affection

would have me bombarded with spasms

of permeating discomfort. 

I remember how my heart 

often felt like an open wound.

Here’s the thing: 

Love is an overt betrayal

of the agency’s principles.

Love makes you vulnerable

to un-vetable outside forces. 

Every foray into the illogic

of loving risks

endangering your mission.

I have now worked for the agency

for what amounts to my entire life,

often moving to another city 

when exposed.

My adventures have been marked by

small, inconspicuous successes.

As an agent

friendships are rare, if impossible.

Friendliness is only encouraged 

as an intelligence strategy.

Unable to make enemies

even with an enemy

and because of fear of exposure,

my personal opinions 

have been rendered pointless.

I am not here

to accumulate likes and dislikes

like so many joys or unpleasantness.

It is forbidden for me to object.

I am not here to pleasure myself.

My pleasure is viewed 

as a form of betrayal.

I could choose to confess.

An old spy is not a young spy

and a reckoning is surely coming.

I am working for the agency

at the expense of any right

to the most mundane

gesture of selfishness.

As a boy I learned 

to observe others

by surveilling myself:

On home base

I wasn’t just holding the bat,

I observed myself

holding the bat

while the other boys had fun,

I had already been inducted

and hiding

in plain sight.

Truth is, I was chosen because

I was attractive to the enemy,

vulnerable and without family ties,

and I had an undeniably open heart.

So many avenues would have

been possible for me,

except for the most valuable: 

Simple being.

Imagine for a moment

working for a clandestine agency

where you have never met the boss

face to face,

where proving your worth

is based on your ability to blend in,

to appear to belong no matter

where you find yourself,

but never truly belonging.

Your smallest everyday exchange

is an experience to be infiltrated

rather than lived.  

From your first glimmer 

of sexual awakening

you are groomed as a prostitute

and encouraged to use your sex

in exchange for information.

When you went rogue and experimented

as you often have

using your sexuality for escape

rather than leverage,

you were made ill 

and confined

to your bed

like Ingrid Bergman in Notorious.

For years I became convinced

the agency was working

out of the basement 

of a local evangelical church.

Maybe that way 

I could imagine myself

a noble experiment,

an enigma,

something futile

yet holy.

I live my life by a series of codes.

First code of conduct:

No one says what they mean.

I may say what I mean

only after extraction.

After all,

words are for disguising what is.

Second code of conduct:

People hide their weaknesses.

And I am not allowed to show strength.

Be always a valley

as water flows ever downward

like love to an empty cup.

There are other rules:

Do not draw attention to yourself.

Do not become famous for anything.

Do not fraternize with other agents.

Do not be ugly, angry, or mean.

And also some do’s:

Be simple and kind, not complicated.

Be approachable, unpretentious, and polite.

Occasionally use curse words.

Do not appear perfect.

Last night I scribbled a note 

on the inside of a book of matches

and tossed it from a height.

Lucky for me, I found it.

The note read: 

Find that thing

that touches

everything you think.

God, beauty, love, 

pleasure, fear, desire….

Then meet me there.

They’re onto you.

Peter Valentyne

September 2018