Poetry - Lynn White

  Kinds Of Blue From the blue of the sky to the blue of your eyes and blue of the sea where sunlight reflects blue on blue. On such a bright blue day as this darkness cannot encroach blue is kept outside, doesn’t move in to infect us. But I know that surely later there will come a kind of bleary blue-black night and bring its bruising   blue tones blue notes   which will move inside. There are all kinds of blue. https://hotelmasticadoreshouse.wordpress.com/2026/04/17/kinds-of-blue-by-lynn-white/

  The late  Brian Patten  (1946-2025), Liverpool poet, is the designated Bard of today’s apostrophe poem by our Poetrywivenhoe poet  Lynn White –  a clever cento composed of lines from eleven separate poems. Lynn’s own interjections appear in italics.  To Brian Patten (A Cento and Apostrophe) Yesterday   you were my favourite living poet, there, watching and smiling, now yesterday seems so far away. So I wonder -   did you build your ship of death, knowing you would need it, or did you rage - rage against the dying of the light and not go gentle into that good night when it was time to go, to bid farewell to one’s own self, and find an exit from the fallen self and falling skies. With one quick call dreams can be aborted and become like a marooned whale. Piecemeal the body dies, and the timid soul,   has her footing washed away, as age dark flood rises, cold dash of waves at the ferry-warf - posh and ice in the river, a gray discouraged ...

  Strange Fruit “If this is justice I’m a banana,” I remember this being said and I liked the sound of it humour and pathos   combined incongruously. So sometimes I used those words to express how I was feeling in various situations. But strangely the oddness, and incongruity of the expression impressed no one. So I moved on to express myself with different words,   forgot about it, until now when the sight of a banana hanging singly by it’s stem on a hook not made for the purpose (how could it be?), made me realise that the banana, a fruit with no juice and usually no seeds, is always incongruous always out of place wherever it appears. https://theliterarynest.org/issues/volume-8-issue-3/lynn-white/

  Off The Wall “Ceci n’est pas de la soupe de tomates” Magritte might have said with irony. But even off the wall   straight from the can   the same may be said! And language spills out with the contents. “Quelle horreur!”   say the gourmets in French. But Warhol was as American as Magritte was Belgian. Irony on irony. https://latinosenglishedition.blog/2026/04/14/off-the-wall-by-lynn-white/

  Haunting Everything feels new fresh refreshed like a meadow blooming after gentle rain. I tell myself that’s how I feel refreshed by gentle rain not battered by a storm. Sometimes   I almost believe it, believe that I’ve left the past behind, our past with it’s sunshine and shadows. I try to see the sun but it’s so bright   I have to close my eyes and that’s when the tears fall. That’s when the shadows return to haunt me. I hope   sometimes they will be haunting you. https://latinosenglishedition.blog/2026/02/28/haunting-by-lynn-white-2/

  As The River Flows The river flows by but doesn’t carry me with it as I sit solidly on the bank side watching my reflection fragmenting and reforming. It can’t carry away my reflection either, can only move it around, destroy and recreate it with a bit of a breaking backdrop which, on reflection tells me little about   where I am, or who, or why. It leaves me behind. It always will, unless I enter and let it   float me away. https://latinosenglishedition.blog/2026/03/17/as-the-river-flows-by-lynn-white/