Poetry - Lynn White

  Gone Fishing The fish were there gathered at the shoreline almost asking to be caught. But that was then. They’re all gone now replaced by plastic replicas. https://4fpfish.blogspot.com/?fbclid=IwY2xjawRQgAZleHRuA2FlbQIxMQBzcnRjBmFwcF9pZBAyMjIwMzkxNzg4MjAwODkyAAEeHWo_yAE5x6Rb2S8VgBRJ0txzKOTOnyNymL0FSZJdzrrT0wzmsVQee2_mzjg_aem_k_Q5jJwyYO0QBM_VypkKTg

  Sea Glass And Driftwood I see them everywhere on the beach, sea glass and driftwood. Pieces of Art now strewn like a shipwreck drowned and sculpted by the sea. I see the sea in every piece of glass. In it,   not through it. I can’t see through it, though I know once it was clear. I remember the film ‘Sea Wife’ as I gather up the shiny sea glass and arrange it with the driftwood. The driftwood will be my ‘Biscuit’ trying desperately to see through, searching for her face washed up broken   and stained   in glass. Searching in vain beyond that beach, her face well hidden   as a nun in her habit. I view my collection, see exotic creations made by the sea and long to make one of my own to pay homage   to the beach, the sea and an old movie. https://www.ekphrastic.net/the-ekphrastic-challenges/belinda-scott-ekphrastic-writing-responses-curated-by-kate-copeland

  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/