Pentimento

There is a painting

beneath this one.

Night proves that.

For the dreamer,

day is a still life.

A blue vase 

next to pears

on a sil.

Day is for

negotiating 

objects.

But look closer.

An opaque rift 

in the cobalt

opens a space

occupied solely

by silence

revealing

an unexpected, if

irrational image.

A landscape.

Call it night.

This time

night is a path

along rugged cliffs

where I

wander alone

over roots and rock.

I can’t 

smell the sea

because a dream 

has no scents.

The vase, pedestrian,

the pear unripe.

The path ambles

beneath cumulus

flecked by diving

sea birds,

plovers I think.

In this place

my heart is so full

of love and God

that there’s no

telling them apart. 

The vase, bereft

of flowers but

buoyed by pears

is a pleasant choice

made in daylight.

The path, both

tricky and magnificent

is a mirage 

that will not last,

an unchosen 

image made

of both emotion

and memory;

an adolescent version

of a temporary 

paradise.

Awake, 

I strain

to be simple

as I’ve 

too many

feelings to hold

in or let go of.

Engrossed by

the mise en scene

behind things 

that are chosen

vs. those

bleeding

pentimento-like

through the vase.

Bliss leaves

its bruise.

Night blooms

as if pain 

were 

a flower

in the same way

my blood causes

roses to blossom.

Their poetry writ

like tattoos 

drawn in

disappearing ink

on my skin.

The body is 

its own red sky 

at mourning.

I know my

body’s mind.

Bruises are 

its language.

They teach 

that

time fades

all wounds.

A wound is 

a poem

about hurting.

My roses 

keep score.

Their redness,

a barometer

of unconstrained 

feeling.

The things 

that hurt

have a name.

My body 

remembers

by revivifying 

its canvas.

The mind 

has it’s clouds

but I am 

a whole sky.

Bruises bring 

an angel

the color 

of sundown.

They grow 

and fade

like weeds in 

a victory garden.

I am a bruise

that’s slowly 

fading.

Flowers at 

the funeral

of a boxer.

Little punctual 

memories

of one’s 

own pain.

That’s what 

they are.

Medicine 

from within.

Mornings are

for recovery;

a hospital bed

without a wing.

I lay recalling

whatever I can

before what I 

can and 

cannot do

are dragged 

away by

the undertow

of forgetting.

I am 

inside myself

and

beside myself

all at once,

blown like a leaf

onto the surface

of a stream

as the dream

takes me home

to itself.

What 

happens

at night

stays in 

the night.

Except for 

the exotic

flower I

wake

holding tight

in my hand.

Peter Valentyne

November 21, 2020

 

Random Thoughts 

While Having an 

Echocardiogram

This world’s a hospital

and the sick

are everywhere.

This hospital is

a series of

Chinese boxes

where our bodies

are the last

of the lids

to be

opened.

Be patient

with me.

I am made

of limbs

from the

tree of life.

See, 

I’ve got 

a knot

for a heart;

a scarecrow

with a 

mind

of mulch

and other

remembered

things.

Look

how I 

go about

like some

raggedy God

dragging

all that 

I am made of

behind me.

It will

take a tear

to make

me new. 

Today

the technician’s

hands are gloved

in latex

to contain

any trace

of sensuality.

For myself,

I use

my clothes

for a condom. 

Heaven forbid

I should

unsheathe

my poetry

in so much

artificial

light.

I strip

anyway

as instructed

and lay

on a bed

of crinkling

rice paper,

bare skin

beneath a

borrowed

gown

whose thread-

count only 

chaffs.

Now lie on

your side

and put 

your arm

behind

your head.

You instruct

and I

assume a

rather

cheesecake

pose, 

willing to vamp

for the polite

pornographer.

You who

mustn’t know 

I keep a stone

in my pocket

to keep myself

well.

Nothing

dissolves 

my sorrows

like a pebble.

Above, the

florescents

hum like

a geiger

while I lay

at the mercy

of instruments

designed to

remind me

I am not

made of 

wood.

Okay,

take a breath.

Hold it.

Hold it.

Hold it.

Now, release.

What if 

I were to

shut my eyes

and the world 

drop suddenly

dead?

Or is that

just an

unthinkable

secret

alive and well

inside my head?

Peter Valentyne

November 15th, 2020

 

Quantum

Physiques

“Quantum Physics

allows for particles to be

in two states at the same time.”

I’ve never used 

the word quantum

in a sentence before,

but that didn’t stop it

from sprouting

fully formed,

regurgitated from

the quixotic frontier

of another 

night’s dream

like some rare

amphibious noun

washed up 

on the shore

of my bed.

Can you blame me

for wondering

where and why

this word had 

arrived?

Then again,

you may have

already gathered,

I’m an indefatigable

edge comber.

If sleep is

the land of aftermath

and repercussions,

the place where 

all things conspire

to assimilate,

then you’re

sure to find me

sitting at the foot

of my bed

imagining

my soul 

to be

the ghost

beneath 

the sheet.

Night is custodian,

coerced by

none other than

the chalk moon

 to wipe clean

another day’s slate

of uncatagorical 

ephemera;

seeing as

these artifacts are

the unfinished

business of

selfhood.

Like Dali,

I lift up

the edge of

the sea

to peer

at the stars.

Being that

we are not

our sole source

of volition,

you need only

consider 

the winds,

the currents,

the tides,

and

dreams…

crepuscular,

appearing

and disappearing,

strengthening

and atrophying

through a recurrence

of infinite forgetting.

If it’s evidence

you want,

then just look

how night emerges

undeterred

 from the confines

of the body’s 

compass

so that

when we wake

we might remember

the beauty

beneath

the waves.

Peter Valentyne

11/5/20

Gifts from the God 

of Nervous Breakdowns

Exhaustion that brings on 

a spiritual resignation

from unessential things.

You find clarity amidst chaos.

Resignation brought on by

the realization that you will never

know why anyone does anything.

You live free of judgment.

The realization that someone you 

care for is fast asleep and that

waking them is not an option.

You develop quiet compassion.

The notion that nothing good

can come of your desire for escape

so prison is what you will make of it.

You value sanctuary.

Realizing we live in a culture that

encourages vanity and selfishness

then leads to your dropping out.

You are humbled.

An unexpected repugnance to

a second glass of red wine

dispelling a belief in further climbs.

You drink less.

The illogical hunch that three is no

greater than two and that one 

was always more than enough.

You become economical.

The “turn on” that accompanies 

turning everything off and facing

your naked self in silence.

You harbor no secrets.

The compulsion to paint words on stones

and leave them anonymously in the paths

of those that are sad and lonely.

You relate with the angels.

The premonition that a houseplant is God’s

way of granting green wishes, but that

God is repulsed by being thought a Genie.

Your prayers are no longer wishes.

The feeling that a rainy day means less

to live up to and you find yourself

oddly mesmerized by an encroaching storm. 

You know weather is earth’s emotions.

The sudden temptation to collapse

in a place you’ve never lived

a moment of daily practicality.

You leave no stone unturned to feel new.

Peter Valentyne

October 27th, 2020

 

Self-Inflicted

If I embody

what I love

so that there is 

no need

to look elsewhere,

and every chance 

I get I

give that love 

away,

I will be saved.

For the rest, 

I pray they find

a mystery school

for the self-inflicted,

burdened by

they know 

not what.

A greater faith

in the literal?

For myself,

I am more

than

brick and mortar

in a time of

astronomical

rents.

In this year

of plague,

the days age 

like lilies

in a vase,

by week's end

the water

reeks of rot.

Yet, I have 

memorized

their beauty.

Its possible I’ve

run out of need

for a master.

If one

were to appear,

I would know him

by a signifier:

he always takes

the shape 

of you.

Clearly

my understanding 

has ripened like

sun upon wheat

as I see you

a foot soldier

in the field

softly

humming the song

that holds

our lives

together.

Yours is

a lesson 

in un-learning

and

I, to my 

dismay fear I’ve

outgrown myself.

Still, my own nature,

abhorring a vacuum

does not mistake

the body

for a 

set of clothes.

No, I can lay

myself aside 

because you teach 

a radiance

that cannot be worn.

Instead of clutching

at these rags

I shed them 

willingly, 

disarmed

by your

smallest 

kindness.

I let them fall

to the ground,

little more than

a dog-eared 

penny dreadful,

a tattered tear-jerker,

 a dis-owned crutch;

first and last sign of a 

sacred wound.

Asleep I am

merely

a flaccid flesh-

colored slicker.

Then be awake,

where nothing 

can be owned,

nor do we need 

to struggle

for any territory.

Fatigued at last

from hoarding goods,

I’ll float free

knowing

nature's mirror 

is nothing

less than

a holy

water.

Peter Valentyne

October 23, 2020