Poetry - Lynn White

  Nothing In those streets of men and boys, in that country   for men and boys, she feels like a person with no face, her face space covered, her identity occupied by a swirling mist of confusion like nothingness being born. Sometimes   she wishes for a blank space that she could fill herself with a Magritte apple or even a woman even herself un-blanked and visible. Now, in those streets of men and boys, in that country   for men and boys, she feels like a person with no voice, Magritte’s apple is choking her, muting her so even in her home she whispers her songs and curses. Only in her head does she shout that something will come of nothing, that something must come of nothing. https://edgeofhumanity.com/2026/07/10/edge-of-humanity-magazinepoetry-anthology-july-2026-%c2%b7-c/

  Bath Time The bath used to hang on the wall in the scullery. Not our scullery. His scullery. We borrowed it from Mr Neil who rented us the rooms at the front of his house. One down, one up. My mother would knock on his door and he would lift it down for her. But she had to carry it to our   living room. It was heavy, made of zinc she said. It took a lot of water which had to be carried from the outside tap and then heated on our gas ring. It took a lot of hot water and had to be filled   and emptied with a jug. Sometimes it was just too much work for her and she washed me in a bowl as I sat on her fat lap. It was snuggly. I preferred it   that way really. https://stortellerpoetryreview.blogspot.com/2026/07/growing-up-in-sheffield-england.html

  Sore Fingers At night my long hair was wrapped in rags - pristine strips of thick white cloth. Sore fingers, my mother called them. My unruly curls bandaged into six stiff sore fingers, to be unravelled in the morning to reveal shiny ringlets ready to be tied in bunches with broad, bright, bias cut ribbons. I wanted plaits. All the heroines in my childhood   books had plaits I dreamt about plaits fantasised about plaits. No more sore fingers. I wanted plaits. Sometimes I untied the ringlets, to my mothers displeasure, and made untidy, unsuccessful plaits. Plaits would ruin my hair, my mother said. Would spoil it’s natural curl, destroy it in some way never specified. I didn’t care. I hated ringlets. I hated sore fingers. I wanted plaits. https://stortellerpoetryreview.blogspot.com/2026/07/growing-up-in-sheffield-england.html

  Red Car The abandoned car stood on the waste ground, rusting away, doors hanging off, leather seats ripped. The children played there on warm summer days but I was not allowed. The place was dangerous and the children were rough. It was the first time I had ever been in a car. I sat behind the wheel to drive it making engine noises like a bus. It was a black car. In those days all cars were black. Any colour you like, so long as it’s black. I thought that a red one would have been nicer.  https://stortellerpoetryreview.blogspot.com/2026/07/growing-up-in-sheffield-england.html

Such Nonsense We had a new teacher, a student still in college. He read us a long poem.  I listened carefully trying to make sense of it. It was funny. Was it meant to be funny? or was the laughter of derision, to what sounded like nonsense. Laughter seemed allowed and that was unusual. School was not a place for fun. Well, maybe it was nonsense but I loved the imagery and the colours of the words. I asked if 'pea green' was the colour of mushy peas from the chip shop, or was it those in pods fresh from the garden. Nothing was clear, but it was fun.   https://stortellerpoetryreview.blogspot.com/2026/07/growing-up-in-sheffield-england.html

Running Wild She had been one of my mothers best friends. Her daughter was in my class at school and one of my best friends. But I was rarely allowed to call on her to play out. She lived in a street opposite ‘the cliffs’, which when I’ve been there since, weren’t cliffs at all, just a steep area overgrown with bushes   and small tees with an overgrown field above. It was great fun scrambling around there. “Dangerous”, my mother said, “and those children are allowed to run wild”! But it was great fun while it lasted! https://stortellerpoetryreview.blogspot.com/2026/07/growing-up-in-sheffield-england.html