A Bell in Wind

This morning’s wind 

won’t take no

for an answer.

There’s really

no other way

to break through.

You found me

living in a steeple

amongst skyscrapers

without the slightest 

need to parish 

the thought.

If I were a man

inside a tower

I could hear

but not feel you.

I’d pull

the ceiling up

over my head,

though 

a cloth cave 

makes for

a lame

safe haven.

You will

not be 

deterred

while I am 

made to 

answer.

How can I

not think

of you

as angry?

What with

so much wailing.

I think you’d

like to

peel back

the sheath

of all our skulls

and expose 

the thoughts 

that keep us 

from seeing 

ourselves 

in each other.

So no 

silent night 

this!

 

This wind 

means something. 

This wind 

means business.

That’s how

I know

you’re sacred.

What if a howling

curlycue cry is 

the first 

and last

brush with

your one 

long breath?

Something as

invisible

as you

easily escapes

the bonds

attempting

to contain you

and roams

the land

to blow 

histories away

like only so much

dust or ash.

I lie afraid

awake to all

I’ve done

to own

the slightest

portion of 

this world. 

Then

three dreams in

and suddenly

the branch of a tree 

reaches through 

the window

mocking the

cold hard

arrogance

of the glass,

or is it mine?

Nothing will keep 

you out

when you want in.

A great crash 

of chimes

renders Jingle Bells

little more

than a mangled

childhood rhyme;

a power 

no carol

could summon 

but if summoned,

can hide from.

I drift off

to sleep 

to get away

from you

but dreaming 

brings you

back. In fact

it only amplifies

this wailing

unharmonious 

song.

The wind worsens 

and buildings begin

losing their integrity.

The tree branch 

that reached

through my window

is a long arm 

of a marionettist

made of bark 

clearly out to wring 

its puppet’s 

little neck.

Is what destroys 

the same as 

what forgives? 

I’m afraid 

I must know 

both before

I can be 

whole again.

Peter Valentyne

Christmas 2020

 

Surrealisme

i

When the creature 

steps into the mannequin 

he immediately believes 

it to be real and alive 

and as long as he believes 

this he is trapped 

inside the dead image, 

which moves in ever-

increasing circles 

away from Great Nature.

For the surrealist, 

humanity is a seductive costume 

donned by dummies, 

for stepping out of the costume 

risks deranging the self 

that one unthinkingly 

inhabits, courting madness, 

the dissolution of the belief 

in the human world 

as the arbiter of reality. 

But it is also to draw closer 

to Great Nature, 

in the quest for a new 

and more liberating art.

ii

Break the glass

and step out

onto the street.

The slacks and pullover

courtesy of 

the Young Moderns

section of the catalogue

will help you blend in.

Remember this: 

keep your heart 

out of your face 

and

trust your hands,

they've no reason

to believe

they're not you. 

~from ”Romance in the Age of Masks”

Peter Valentyne

The 

Holy

Sorrow

Like Sundays,

my sadness 

is holy.

I am

resigned

like the rain

to falling.

I have my

own gravity.

Am I

the only one

to find

living under

a cloud

brings out

the world’s

colors? 

Life is a ruin

and maybe 

that’s 

its splendor,

its rococo

mystery.

Consider 

the ancient

Colosseum

built 

for combat,

with 

only our 

suffering 

as spectacle.

A theatre 

of cruelty

designed

to fleece

the breath

from the

crowd.

Only an

earthquake

could 

increase 

the grandeur

of its rubble.

But I'm after

wholeness.

A liquid 

intelligence

is how I

make my

way.

I embrace

my grief

to ward off 

the perils

of unfeeling.

My sorrow 

is love

for what was

and will 

not 

come again.

If you're

like me

you've 

stumbled 

upon 

a pilgrimage 

to find

a shard

of silver 

in a gold

quarry;

a recognition

of yourself in

unforgiving 

light.

Life is in

the gravel

unloading its

grief at

our feet.

Did I say

gold quarry?

I meant a

salt mine.

Our tears 

seep 

through

its

cracks

like light

from the 

moon.

Still,

don't you 

want

to live

as long as

grit can

make

a flower 

and sorrow

form

a pearl?

I do.

I live

as in a

terrarium.

I could

be

Lazarus,

recycling 

my breath

in order

to bring 

more humidity

to my

retort.

My soul,

uprooted

as an

open hand,

reaches

upward

like a faith.

If I'd not 

found

sadness

beautiful, 

I’d never

have survived,

and this year 

would have

been merely

for coming 

to terms with

just so

unlikely

a grace.

Peter Valentyne

December 2020

 

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