Poetry - Lynn White

  Recovering My Dreams I have such beautiful memories inside my head.   Inside my head. Struggling to get outside into the ragged, jagged outside life which passes for normality. Such beautiful dreams lying there. One day I might recover them and live that perfect life which lies inside my head. They wait there for me, await recovery for the journey outside. https://www.lulu.com/shop/martha/the-soliloquist-fall-2026-issue/paperback/product-dy79qnp.html?page=1&pageSize=4

  On The Beach They search and search, the hikers in the blow   of last night’s storm, then they stop. Stand and gaze   into a still pool, misty with sand blown.   The waves still crash and spray. There’s nothing in the pool but sand and stones they’re sure of it now, but out there beyond, they’ll still search on, out there in the blue blow of the death zone. https://gaspoertyartandmusic.blogspot.com/

  Godot He sits still waiting composed straight backed gloomy   in contemplation and silence watching the telly everything   switched off.   Oh God such gloom. God is dead he heard   them say but still   he waits watching waiting oh God still waiting. https://gaspoertyartandmusic.blogspot.com/

  Your Blue Eyed Boy The response to any creative work is subjective necessarily so inevitably. 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  deeply, roll around my head like an ear worm. I don’t understand it. But they do. https://inalove.world/2026/10/22/your-blue-eyed-boy/

  Dead Poets Outside the night was filled with stars, a sky full of dead poets if van Gogh is to be believed. But he was inside now   and all he remembered was the red curtain coming down over his eyes. Red first and then black. So black it turned everything black. They told him that   he had died for a few seconds, or was it a few minutes. Then he was back   looking out   on the starry night. He wondered how long it took for a dead poet to become a star. Was a few seconds, or even a few minutes, sufficient. And now,   now that he was back, was he still shining undead, living up there with all the dead poets. Unless the raising of the curtain put out his light. https://litshark.com/issue-11-lit-shark-live/

  Gramsci He was a stray who knew all about wars of manoeuvres   as he invaded our lives, so, we named him Gramsci. He wanted to be a house cat and hid, scratched, bit and hissed   to avoid the fearsome outdoors. It was the pterodactyls he feared and Jurassic Park was out there, he’d watched it on TV (it was his favourite film) sitting safely on a knee and glancing round, ears back to check   all was as it should be. But out there… Gramsci would take no chances. https://www.thesunlightpress.com/2026/10/19/poetry-by-lynn-white/