Poetry: Selections from Lynn White

River

I look into the river and see myself in reflection.

Colour fast but unstable, I move helplessly in its flow.

I am constantly being moved and changed,

but left stationary, moved but not moving on 

like the fishes and pebbles. 

Here I am, disturbed and abstracted,

surrounded by this rippling, babbling, watery world, 

which leaves me unclear who I am and,

more unclear about the solidity of my background

and what is happening around me.

I look into two worlds which are intermingling,

becoming inseparable before my gaze.

My own distorted image fades and breaks

with the images behind and beyond me

in the background of my life.

This river is becoming a metaphor for my own confusion.

For the displacement and fragmentation I feel inside. 

I am in danger of being broken up and washed away.

Unable to bring myself together, I remain in pieces,

undecided, lacking definition.

It is also a metaphor which stretches beyond my person, 

into the confusion and fragmentation beyond it’s edges,

into the reality outside, which is pressing in on me. 

It excludes any coming together, any resolution as

it embraces me in its ripples and sounds.

Such sweet, watery sounds, cooly relaxing my spirit.

Shutting out the incoherent babbling outside.

But still, even as I put my hands over my broken ears,

I know it will find a way inside and overwhelm me,

in any case.

First published in Selfhood Anthology, Transcendence Zero Press, December 2016

Grains of Time

Time is running out for me

And I sit here gazing into space

Watching each grain trickle away.

I can't catch them,

Can't stop them,

Can't slow them down

Or speed them up.

I can only live the moment

As it passes.

I Was Not Like Her

I was not like her,

the girl in the picture

looking out

scowling

defiant

rebellious.

No I was not like her

not me

not then.

I wore the gloves in summer 

that my mother bought me

the classic cut clothes 

that she had always 

wanted to wear

even allowed my hair to curl

as it wanted to

as she wanted it to.

No I was not like her,

the one in the picture

not then.

But when I broke free

made myself up

wore minis

or long skirts

controlled my curls

with an iron in hand

yes

I think

I became her

then.

First published in Visual Verse, January 2020

A Face In The Crowd

Once I could be seen,

was known by my face, 

my dress, my demeanour

recognisable in a crowd.

Now I have disappeared. 

Even if larger than life,

even if upside down

I would still be invisible.

A few wrinkles is all it took

to fade away

to become

less 

than a face

in the crowd.

To become no one.

Performance Art

He’s the last man standing.

And whether comedian

or statesman

performance is all

for the last man standing.

Standing in the rubble of the city.

Standing on the bodies of the dead heroes,

those lions led by donkeys once again.

No more laughter,

no more tears,

the final curtain

came down on them.

Hollow victory

or glorious defeat

it’s all the same to them.

But the last man still stands,

the star of the show

temporarily.

First published in Topical Poetry, March 27 2022

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.