Poetry - Lynn White

Through the Glass A long time ago, Alice saw herself in her looking glass and walked through into a topsy turvy world  where everything was back to front and inside out. She drifted into a dreamscape of madness and unreality, without breaking the glass. She wasn’t cut by the shards of her mirror or the place she entered into. She had only to wake from her dream to make things the right way round again. But with a clear glass, a transparent window to the world, things would have been different. She would look towards a place where everything seems the right way round, where everything makes sense and adds up sweet with reason. There seems no madness in this place which looks easy for her to enter and welcomes her without sharp edges. But the clear glass is an invisible barrier to the life on the other side that seduces and entices her. And to step inside she has to break the glass whose sharp edges cut her, really cut her. And then propel her crazily on. Una...

Dawn Chorus It starts with one. One skylark singing. One Carson warning. Then the robins and blackbirds join in.  The early birds, like Carson. Then the wrens and warblers as the daylight warms them. Listen. Can you hear them? The warning calls are warming up as well, strengthening their numbers  as the bird song dies away. Listen. Listen. Can you hear them? Listen.  Don’t sleep. Don’t wait to hear  the silence. First published by Ealain, Extinctions Issue 7, April, 2015 http://www.magzter.com/ZA/MPA-Publishing/Ealain/Art/142103?

Behind the Mask Will I ever see the man behind the mask? I think I can  sometimes through the eye slits, sometimes when they are open. Eyes are revealing, after all, and difficult to hide. Maybe they’ll tell me enough, tell me all I need to know. So I will have no urge to peel off the mask, to tear it away from the skin underneath. It would be too painful, anyway. Too raw, for both of us and would leave behind a soreness that would not heal. And still not all would be revealed by the exposure. http://www.withpaintedwords.com/view_submission.php?news_id=944

Butterflies So many new warriors grown from the seeds planted by the invaders  sent by the money men, the arms traders, the super ego-ed politicians. So many dead warriors lying whole or in pieces, destroyed by the invaders sent by the money men, the arms traders, the super ego-ed politicians. Dead warriors. Soon to be transformed, transformed into butterflies, according to the Mayans who knew about transformations - and about warriors. Butterflies with the souls of the dead warriors. Butterflies that can fly across continents, cross oceans and borders. There are no barriers for butterflies. And they are experts in transformation, experts in disguise. They will consume them, the money men, the arms traders, the super ego-ed politicians. Will worm their way inside them, infest them and destroy them all, Yes, they should beware the butterflies with the souls of dead warriors and the memories of slaughter. They carry karma with them. First publi...

Spark He looked down, aloof. Eyes deliberately  downcast. Not to be met. “Hmm”, she said, "Aunt Celia." He looked up. Surprise. Contact. Charge. Eyebrows twitched, a spark. The spark. The spark that would ignite the fire that would consume them. First published in Leannan   http://www.magzter.com/ZA/MPA-Publishing/Leann%C3%A0n/Art/

Then She’s standing still  pale as England,  slim and serious as I stood  then. Hair chopped  above her shoulders with a little curl allowed as mine was  then. A little curl allowed, in memory of it’s ringlets earlier than then. Then it grew longer  and we pulled it straight. So now, it’s more like it was  before then. Before then,  when it was longer still, and ironed straight under thick brown paper. It had been shorter still before then it’s feminine length curtailed, but with a little curl allowed, a reminder of it’s ringlets earlier than then. Of it’s earlier hated ringlets grown  from loose curls. Ringlets cut  when  father died. Not until then. First published in Silver Birch Press, Looks Like Me series 2015 https://silverbirchpress.wordpress.com/2015/11/24/then-poem-by-lynn-white-looks-like-me-ekphrastic-poetry-series/

Washed Up So many dead people caught in the crossfire created by the the money men,  the arms traders, the super ego-ed politicians. They lie dead where they fell. Flesh and blood transformed to fertilizer to nurture the seeds and grow the crops, in a future they will not see. Their bones decaying to dust to form the building blocks of homes they will never inhabit. Dying where they fell, over there, not here and not looking like us. Unseen or soon forgotten by us here. But the dead washed up on holiday beaches look like our flesh and blood. They’re wearing our clothes. They’re washing up to haunt us in the Old World. Then there’s the living, washed up alive and by any means necessary moving on to bear witness, if any one is listening. To bring the horror home to those who created it in the Old World. Bringing it home to the Old World, but not as yet to the New. First published in Whirlwind, Issue 6 2015 https://issuu.com/whirlwindreview

Roots It’s said that you should remember your roots, remember where you came from, remember where you belong, anchored by your long tap root. But I have fibrous roots too, growing out strongly from the main tap. I have spread them out and put them down in many places, taken sustenance from them. They’ve been part of my growth, fed my main stem and it’s splits and branches. I’ve branched out from them and belonged in them all, all those places. And some rootlets have broken free and I’ve left them behind there no longer belonging to me. And I’ve left something of myself behind. Would I find it if I returned? I don’t think so. But others may still. First published in Writers Ezine, November 2015 https://www.facebook.com/writersezine/photos/a.212677528928918.1073741826.212673548929316/419794431550559/?type=3&theater

Leaving Last night at the theatre I saw you again, Your smile in a face so much younger. My confusion, my thoughts, my stares made him turn And your warm smile chilled me. The past and it’s future all came flooding back. The shock of sensations long gone. The dance and the music, the books that we read, the memories that we must both have of the pain and the pleasures, that were part of our love a long time ago. So I ask myself now, can anything stay to give pleasure to us in remembering those days? For my remnants now seem to be only pain, and their sadness engulfs me and halts my return. So I left, in the end, as I left you, my love, Saying nothing, taking nothing, leaving nothing behind. Without saying goodbye. First published in Leannan, ‘Lovers’ Issue 1, October, 2015 http://www.magzter.com/ZA/MPA-Publishing/Leann%C3%A0n/Art/

Michel Traveling through northern France with Michel driving. The Beatles singing on the radio, “Michelle, my belle”. A sky of uniform grey, dark, dark grey. And then, a surprise rainbow. And then, to one side, a helicopter  outlined black. Mosquito like. Black. And then, I bottled it. I can still remember. First published in Silver Birch Press, Song Series, November 2015 https://silverbirchpress.wordpress.com/2015/11/01/michel-poem-by-lynn-white-when-i-hear-that-song-series/