Tuesday, 19 March 2019

I look into the river and see myself in reflection.
Colour fast but unstable, I move helplessly in it’s 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 it’s 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.

Sunday, 17 March 2019

Old Reds
Molly was a red,
her politics even redder than her hair.
She met in the city centre pub
every Tuesday night
with the three Tommys,
a Gramscian Tommy,
a New
and of course,
Tommy the Trot.
Every Tuesday night
they met and argued
about the Spanish Civil War.
They’d been doing it for years,
decades in fact
every Tuesday night
their voices undiminished by age
growing louder and louder
as the Guinness worked it’s magic
spilling over a little as fists banged the table
every Tuesday night.
But the new Landlady was no respecter of age,
“Youse come in here disturbing the peace again
next Tuesday and yer all banned”, she cried!
“Well”, said Molly ,“that’s not very comradely!”
at last they all agreed.


Saturday, 16 March 2019

Every Breath

It's interesting to consider that
every breath I take
has already been breathed by
someone else,
another person or creature.
Been part of their breath.
Perhaps that dog over there, 
smelly and hairy, 
licking it's own arse.

I would prefer not to have 
molecules of oxygen from it's breath
entering my blood stream, 
giving me life.
But there's nothing
I can do about it.
Have to take what comes.
Breath the air that's there
wherever it's been before.
Rebellion is not an option.


Friday, 15 March 2019

Category: LYNN WHITE
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...

Thursday, 14 March 2019

From Dan Dare To The Daleks - Visual Verse

Wednesday, 13 March 2019

The Empty House

It fascinated us as children,
the empty house in the countryside
where we walked the neighbour’s dog.
Why was it empty?
Who had lived there?
We imagined secret passages
leading to priest holes,
walled up dead bodies
and buried treasure.
No one knew.
But we knew
that the dog was reluctant to go near
and we had heard that dogs were sensitive
to the spirit world.
So we knew
it was haunted.
That ghosts lived there,
spirits of the past.
We dared each other to enter
through the broken window.
Maybe we broke it first,
but I don’t remember that.
In the end we all went in,
leaving the dog outside.
But there was nothing.
Just a house.
Not spooky.
Just empty.
I passed it today,
all these years later.
There’s no entering now.
Police tapes surround it.
Maybe the dog knew
that the ghosts were of the future,
not the past.


Tuesday, 12 March 2019

Smile by Lynn White