The Beauty that Endures by Aching

 

The more life takes away,

the more aesthetic

I become.

Maybe this is how

an artistic soul

clarifies itself:

through privation.

 

I’ve heard it said:

a heart that hurts

is a heart that works.

If true, then it is

entirely possible

I may live

the rest of my life

bound by a buoyant

sorrow.

 

Though my capacity

for joy is equally great,

I cannot abandon

my wound.

In its aching

rests a potent

source of strength.

Who’s to say

this aching

has no claim

to beauty?

 

I see my wounds

as altars

calling my body

to be attentive

like a parishioner

in a church

where silence

and singing

cry equally out

to be heard.

 

My wound is

a painting by Pollack,

miraculously appearing

in the basement

of a dimly lit tenement

as local children

gather round,

curious to see

for themselves

the magnum opus

that appeared

where one least

expected.

They huddle round

its spattered canvas

as if to keep it

and themselves

warm.

A hush falls

naturally over them

as one boy distributes

a small carton of

cake candles

like cigarettes

and begins lighting

one from another

until all are lit;

their combined

brightness

illuminating

their faces

let alone their lives

in the presence

of my conspicuous

yet beautiful

bruise.

9/1/23

 

“Stellar work.” ~Ward Nixon (Director & Actor/teacher)

“You blew me away.”

“The Poetry Defense was my favorite performed piece ever.” ~Dametria Daniels

“So well done!  Congratulations on a your

fabulous performance. Your presentations 

were fantastic and creatively embodied

the theme:  "Love, Loss, Life".  You are so

brave, truthful and heart-felt with your

words and feelings.  Thank you again for 

sharing such depth and wisdom, so true 

to your essence."  ~Carol Endrody

“You were incredible and brave.” ~Frankie Verona

“You are the prince of poetry, if not the king.” ~Barnet Schindlman

“Best of a great evening.”

“Fabulous work. You were raw and humble and true. 

You are truly at the service of your thoughts and words. 

Your are a rare treasure who is capable of touching us deeply. ” 

~Ellen Martin (Actor & Singer)

Tender Fallacies

 

We are not a thing

to whom things happen;

we are a happening.

 

When someone says something

that you find callous or galling,

say to yourself: they don’t know.

 

They don’t know whom of us

lives in private extremis.

 

They don’t know

 

That some of us are like oysters

whose illnesses have produced pearls.

 

They don’t know

 

That while contemplating the face

of a withering pumpkin

we see our future

swimming in a jar.

 

They don’t know

How sometimes for no reason

our bodies bleed tears

that lead always back to

the ocean.

 

Or how in the scent of

ocean water is the diary

of all our feelings

preserved in salt.

 

They don’t know

 

Who amongst us

wrote our love songs

on pianos in a psyche ward.

 

Or how our hometowns

have become no more

than retired fables.

 

Or how we had climbed into

the arms of trees to escape

the neighborhood bully

we had dared to love.

 

 

Or how the local priest could be

aroused by the ragged beauty

of our youthful sorrow.

 

Or how some of us

will one day trace a beam

of a light back to land

in order to attend

to the lost.

 

8/23/23 

 

 

 

My Camera Obscura

 

At night asleep, I'm

neither here nor there,

but extend in all directions,

as much of me behind

as ahead.

 

To dream is to go 

in search 

of someone who

understands that blood

is not red

in rhe dark,

but instead, 

the hue of

one's own shadow.

Are those gargoyles or angels?

They’re too high up to tell.

 

Night is a darkroom

of undeveloped negatives.

Occasionally a chimera’s

double exposure appears;

a picture in an exhibition

of rapidly depreciating prints.

Only when awake

am I able to

hold my life up

to the light.

 

At dawn,

I find the city

erased by fog

as if I’d traded

one dream for another,

deserted in a dim room

after traversing the

parameters of another life,

with nothing left but

to cut my losses.

Isn't remembering

my way of developing?

But no, the child

so filled with feeling

that his loneliness

had become a

sun-scorched

flower cannot stay.

Where is that smile

that knew

no greater grief?

What wicked trick

is this…returning me

to my youth without

any evidence

save the pure joy

of a breaking,

though yet

unbroken heart?

 

Imagine my surprise

at seeing

my younger self again.

Not in some photo

or on film

but in all my

fresh aliveness,

adorned by a crown

of seashells

dancing knee deep

in the holy

waters of a hitherto

unformed self.

 

Here, now

in this room

of morning

I need no news.

With no sign

of a ghost, and

no trace of pictures

that might

qualify as proof,

I'm only this fading

memory of what never

happened

wanting for a form

as clear as day.

 

These aren’t dreams.

They are the compass-less

machinations of some

interior camera obscura.

If you use the word

dream, you miss.

Everyday words fail

truths too unsayable

to be spoken.

Can't you see

some spell

has been broken?

 

Outside the window  

a twin fog is lifting.

The city regains

its rigid logic even

with its concrete

walls still wet

from weeping.

 

My body arrives 

home again

in a room made

by brute hands.

Yet I am infirm,

soft even, barely

able to contain

the blood

holed up inside me.

Where have I been?

Who can tell?

In a place where

nothing

and everything

was all my own.

Why end here

in the midst of

only half the world

when something

as simple as

a poem may

offer an answer?

  

4/17/23

 

Faith

 

A bruise dissipates slowly,

like a spider un-building a web.

A cut closes up in a matter of days

without the slightest planning ahead.

Snip off the head of a flower, and

a new one explodes in its place.

A salamander grows back its tail,

unlike a nose despite one’s own face.

Rain evaporates back into clouds,

as an arrow’s origin’s are a quiver.

A liver can slowly regenerate itself

the way a finger pushes out a sliver.

Cells die every second or so

only to be promptly replaced.

A tree repeats its branches though

its roots down below go untraced.

Take note of the healing that happens

without effort, meddling, or intent.

The only vacuum that nature abhors

is the lack of faith in what to expect.

 

Peter Valentyne 

 

From the Lives of Giants

 

In any given room

our elbows poke

from windows

as our feet push

through floors,

bewildered at having

grown so large.

when all we really

want is to fit in.

 

But how can we

when our heads

butt against

every ceiling

as if we were

live oaks

growing alongside

mummified furniture?

 

Unable to see

all of ourselves

in a mirror,

nor others

take in our

entirety,

our bellies

full of

waste or treasure

and no longer in danger

of being loved

we quietly grapple

with the consequences

of all we've been

taught to want.

 

Night makes it possible

to dream some

spiritual leader

has died.

Unable to view

the body

we are forced

to take others

at their word,

leaving little

more than

a deep despair

at the disappearance

of something so

vital to

our meaning.

 

Now, everywhere

we turn

is unrelenting loss.

We become

little more

than soft machines;

gleaners of surfaces.

A cup of green tea

merely a begging bowl

to move the bowels.

 

Having reached

the age

where we leave

a trail of particles

in the places we

spend the most time,

and now that

our great loves

can only be seen

through a telescope,

we’re left hoping

the distant light

of constellations

will finally make

its way to us.

The alternative 

may well be

petrified minds

of stone.

 

But memories can

return unbidden

like acorns dropped

from a height,

falling to the floor

via a gust of wind

as invisible as

they are

unshakable,

each plunk

in the dark

a dance

between sound

and listener,

as if stars

were being plucked

out of the night sky

or cherry pits spat

from a careless mouth

to land and trundle

as lifeless

as pebbles

left for dead.

 

Who wouldn’t wish

one’s heart

open as a flower

or a choir boy’s mouth

singing Haydn’s Creation

with youthful abandon.

But in fact

we wrestle with

leaving any

door open

as other acorns

hit the planks;

closing the circle

between beginning

and end.

 

Our past; islands

we never tire

of exploring,

a place where trees

are named after

our father, where

we can only marvel

at the natural harmony

that rounds

each of us

entwined or not,

dead or not,

each single leaf

a love letter

written

in green ink.

 

One thought

will persist:

Which of us

will stay behind

to sing our last

thanks to God?

 

7/24/23