Poetry: Selections from Lynn White

Better Together

We will always be together,
said my little brother
if he felt lonely
or if we were sad.
I would give him a hug
to comfort us both 
we will, we will.
We will always have each other
always walk together
even if broken into little pieces
even if distorted by pain
we will pick up the pieces somehow
and put them back together
even if they’re re-arranged
even if not in the same places
we will still be us
But later
we forgot
and walked away

from each other.

Sky Diving

Stand back.
You don’t have to push me,
I’m going to jump.
Here I go,
I’m going to jump,
stand back,
you don’t have to push me,
I’m going to jump!
Here I go 
any second now. 
Stand back.
Don’t push me.
I’m ready
to jump.

Did I miss my slot?

Your Blue Eyed Boy

The response to any creative work
is subjective
necessarily so
But for a novel to work successfully
for any one of us
we must identify
with the characters,
feel for them,
care about them,
at least for one of them.
Surely that is true.
I always believed it.
So Dunmore’s “Your Blue Eyed Boy”
is an anomaly.
I don’t like any
of the characters.
Don’t identify with them or  with any part 
of their lives.
Don’t aspire
to any of it,
never did.
So why do these people reach into the core
of my being,
speak to me
so strongly,
touch me so 
roll around my head like an ear worm.
I don’t understand it.

But they do.

Luck Of The Irish

The Irish love their horses.

It’s a long tradition
which survives urbanisation
among young working class people
in parts of Dublin,
people seemingly like me.
They take them along the city streets,
into supermarkets, on buses,
even up in the lift to their new home 
on the balcony of an apartment.
The stories are legion.

And the Irish love their stories.

But I was not like them.
I couldn’t be part of that story.
I find horses just too big, too strong,
too high from the ground.
Even on a seaside donkey I was afraid
I’d take a tumble from the saddle
or be nudged and trampled into the sand.
I was sure that it was only 
by the luck of the Irish
that I survived.

Yes, Lady Luck loves the Irish.

But I know for certain now
that when I join that wild eyed horse
on the balcony
the luck of the Irish
is bound to desert me.

First published in Orange Blush Journal, November 2020

Sneak Peek

My first attempt at throwing a pot
was not successful.
My large lump of clay twisted and turned
on the wheel
till it became cup size
then egg cup size.
I rather liked my egg cup in the end,
well, not quite the end,
it’s final end came in the kiln
with bang.

Who would have thought then that potting
would become my trade,
my living,
certainly not me.
But that’s what happened for a while.
Look here’s a sneak peek
into my studio 
the grainy black and white
showing it’s age.
It’s all gathering dust now
so a sneak peek is all I can offer,
just a glimpse of how things were
a long time ago.

First published in Visual Verse, May 2019

Lynn White lives in north Wales. Her work is influenced by issues of social justice and events, places and people she has known or imagined. She is especially interested in exploring the boundaries of dream, fantasy and reality. She was shortlisted in the Theatre Cloud 'War Poetry for Today' competition and has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net and a Rhysling Award.


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