I Sleep So You Can Live

“I sleep so you will be alive.”

                        ~Louise Gluck

These are the only adventures left.

The ones I surrender to.

I let you have them, because,

you deserve your capacities.

Who am I to tell you no?

I’m as trapped as anyone

in NYC during the pandemic

and you are my etiquette-less 

inside voice that won’t be quelled.

Live for me, for both of us.

Though we’ll never meet,

I’m able to remember you.

You who do what I cannot.

For instance, last night you swam

inside the waves of the ocean

while I rode shotgun above,

a water-tight hull separating

us both from our natures.

Yet you go on

braving the drink.

I live too cautiously

as if afraid of drowning

while you act out your

liquid legacies in spite

of my affinity for dry land.

Why do I need to be

 stripped of pretense

before you start living it up?

In hindsight, you owe me.

Then again, we use each other.

I bear the weight of your qualities

while you reap the rewards

of who I thought I was.

I marvel how you can

live so much of who I am

in a night with no need 

for darkness.

And so I let myself become

that space that welcomes

your every experience 

despite my better

judgement.

Peter Valentyne

January 24th, 2021

Courtesy of Hitchcock's Spellbound

 

The Purpose of Trying Times

When the intelligence you’ve made your God fails you.

Trade your cleverness for bewilderment

and know awe.

When circumstances appear dire and immovable.

You have painted yourself into the corner 

of a room without walls.

When you discover your “things” cannot save you.

Understand that the art of choosing 

is only half of the history of choice.

When pride in yourself is shaken by personal loss.

It becomes possible to awaken to spirit over matter.

When faith in your fellow man feels misplaced.

Know that the greatest strength worth having 

comes from within.

When all you pinned your hopes on fails.

You’ve reduced the meaning and purpose 

of life to autobiography.

When expectations do not yield results hoped for.

Lower them and see what wonders arise.

When all you want to do is scream.

Go ahead and cry for what you want like a baby,

then prepare to grow wise.

When life seems so unfair you think there is no justice.

Know that karmic justice is often invisible to the eye.

When you think no one can help and nothing can be done.

Realize the ability to observe without evaluating 

is a step toward self-reliance.

When life seems to gradually take all you cherish away.

You may see the shadow of sentimentality 

conceals a cruelty towards oneself and others.

When you haven’t enough energy to muster a smile.

Say a prayer of gratitude for anything.

When you believe society around you is slowly collapsing.

Become a pillar or cornerstone on the inside.

When you can’t find love within or without.

Perhaps you’ve mislabeled a honey pot

for a jar of poison. 

When you feel so vulnerable you fear for your safety.

You’re right where the universe wants you: 

awake and aware.

Peter Valentyne

January 5th, 2020

 

Courtesy of Cocteau's Orpheus

Psalm for

a Rainy Afternoon 

My shaman, sheikh, healer, minister, 

on seeing something rolling downhill 

towards us, threw our train 

in the most graceful reverse 

so that though we braced for impact 

we never felt it.

Then my master, Jesus, archangel, 

questioned me as to how I understood 

the world and why I wasn't afraid to be 

up and out at 3:00 AM

observing his dangers.

Please stay with me, I love you,

I said admittedly from 

the vantage point

of a sea of purple impatiens,

blissfully unaware that

a wall-like tide of water 

was about to enter the Hudson

and certain to change 

the topography 

of every Cole Porter song 

I’d ever been asked to sing,

even as I was arranging 

to become my own 

search engine, 

the password of which

was always: 

quantum.

So this is how I’ve

come to accept

the pain that comes

with every little thing 

I do, 

especially

during those chores

of recompense and

comeuppance.

And now I’ve put

today aside

(as my horoscope advised)

for listening

for new 

revelations 

to break through,

as one might say...

like a kiss

that leaves 

it's own

beautiful bruise.

Peter Valentyne

January 3rd, 2021

 

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