Poetry - Lynn White

A Question of Place ‘Who the fuck is Alice?’ said the March Hare inhaling hard. ‘She’s rather large’ said Dormouse coughing as the smoke ring engulfed him. ‘I find her quite intimidating, actually, not the little girl I expected. Really, I hope Hattie doesn’t invite her to the party. I don’t think she would quite fit in.’ ‘You’ll sleep through it anyway’, said the White Rabbit consulting his watch. ‘It’s time. We should go.’ The March Hare lit another cigarette. ‘We should all change places if she’s there’ said Dormouse. The March Hare blew out more smoke rings. ‘Who the fuck cares if she fits in or not, in a mad world no one has a place. Hatter knows that. He’ll be asking her questions. He knows the place of madness.’ ‘All in good time’, said the White Rabbit consulting his watch. ‘He’ll ask her who she is’. ‘There’s no answer to that’ said Dormouse. ‘N...

In Tune It is still the music of my youth that sings to me. Inside my head if I want it to. It became part of my time, part of my song. Subversive music, coming from the streets. Out of tune with the surround sound monotone  and undermining it with a discordant challenge. Harmony and discord, the songs of peace and love sitting side by side with war and revolution, then as now. They still speak to me, still sing in tune, the lyrical passion of their words, the movement music of the songs has crossed my time and space and become melodies of movement which still break my boundaries and join me back together. Moving rhythms which still excite me, still cross cultures, still annihilate my time and space with their poetry. Words also dance for me, moving patterns on a page. They have their own music, their own rhythms to dance to, their own poetry and lyricism, even if not set to music. Their inspiration is also wrapped in emotions and melodies which have few bou...

https://themagnoliareview.wordpress.com/2017/09/22/lynn-white-interview/ Skip to content Skip to navigation THE MAGNOLIA REVIEW Lynn White–Interview by  Suzanna and Writing: One word at a time September 22, 2017 I generally write at home using the computer. I usually write a first draft fairly quickly, then I edit and edit over a period of days, weeks or months! I have a small notebook in my bag to scribble in if I get an idea while out. I started writing in my teens and have written from time to time since then, but especially over the last 5 years. I don’t really think about my audience, though it’s important that I have one. I would like my work to reach a wide range of people. I’m often surprised by who likes a particular poem. All sorts of things inspire me to write—people, places, events memories…Sometimes ideas flood in, others not, but I can usually write to a prompt. I love to be in the open air. I like gardening and wildlife. I love dancing and ...

Brenda's Turtle When I was a child, Brenda’s turtle walked into the hot, hot embers. No one knew why. So badly burned we thought him ready for an easeful, sleepy death. “No, no” said the vet, “very resilient, turtles, could live to be a hundred.” I would like to tell you that he made the hundred, but he’s not quite there yet, though he still seems happy enough.h ttp://voxpoetica.com/brendas-turtle/

Nuts Last night I dreamt a squirrel's dream. It must have been a squirrel’s. Possibly red, possibly grey, but definitely a squirrel’s. There were so many nuts. They were falling from the sky like heavy rain. I had to put up my blue umbrella to protect me from the showers. And on the ground, ankle deep acorns and hazels were overtopping my blue boots. But I saw no squirrels, only their dreams of nutty profusion. http://www.indianavoicejournal.com/2017/09/three-poems-by-lynn-white-autumn-rain.html?spref=fb

Cabbage Dreams I am dreaming my cabbage dream. I’m peeling off the outer leaves to find what lies hidden beneath. Looks much the same as the outer leaf, a little less battered and crinkled but fundamentally the same. Now for the next layer. There’s a drop of water shining full of light and something darker, more solid, the leavings of some hidden creature. Another layer reveals the holes and the sleepy caterpillar dreaming... without his pipe without his crown, so unsure of his own identity, much less mine. If I peel off layer after layer until I get to the heart of it, will I understand where I’ve come from and be able to unpack the dream, find the pipe and put the pieces together, make sense of the cabbage, crown the king. https://www.createspace.com/7363268

Screwed Up He bottled up his worries, his fears, and sealed them in securely. Put them inside a bottle firmly corked. Then he thought, suppose they grew agitated and, expanding with the heat produced forced the cork free from the bottle, releasing all those fears and anxieties to reoccupy his being. It was another worry for him to ponder and fret about. He knew a screw top bottle would have been better, would have kept them confined more securely. Too late now though, to have that thought done is done. The best ideas are, always too late. Past has always passed. And then, another thought came to him, so timely. Maybe he could he transfer them, move them to the bottle with the screw fastening and screw them up tight without letting them out of the bottle. Without letting them escape. Without giving them freedom, freedom to invade his soul, his dreams, his being his reason for being. Such a risk though. Such a worry. https://w...

Autumn Rain Vertical, or horizontal, autumn rain falls from heavy misty clouds, but when caught by a sunbeam it makes glistening slides shimmering across the rock and falls in bright white tails or snakes like silver where the mountains leak it. ........................... http://www.indianavoicejournal.com/2017/09/septemberoctober-2017-issue-36.html?spref=fb

Flash They don’t have the flash of gaudy summer, but the winter seeds and trees have  a poignant beauty of their own. Shapely. Sculptural. Poised, posing for the camera. They don’t have the nectar to entice the sugar lovers, but there’s food in their seeds, made ready for spreading and rebirth in another place and time. They don’t have the flash of gaudy summer but see them glisten and sparkle with wet spiders webs and jewelled water drops to light up the dark days. And later, glisten with sugar like frosty coating. Still shapely. Sculptural. Poised and ready to face the inevitable decay. http://www.indianavoicejournal.com/…/septemberoctober-2017-… http://www.indianavoicejournal.com/2017/09/septemberoctober-2017-issue-36.html?spref=fb Indiana Voice Journal : September/October 2017, Issue #36 With this issue, we're sending thoughts, prayers, good vibes, and positive energy to our poetry editor,...

Who Am I When did I last know who I am? I wonder if it when I was a child, when I made up stories  from my imagination. Was I separate then from the imaginary children with imaginary parents and imaginary friends. knowing where my story began and where I ended. I don’t remember. Perhaps the story ended before I began. Perhaps the two began together. Perhaps they may end together, separately or eternally entwined,  inseparable. I cannot say. I never could. Did I ever know who I am? https://www.amazon.com/…/1549526618/ref=cm_sw_r_cp_ep_dp_Zs… https://www.amazon.com/dp/1549526618/ref=cm_sw_r_cp_ep_dp_ZsCUzbQ4B4WZ3 [Insert Yourself Here]: An Anthology of Contemporary Poetry [Insert Yourself Here]: An Anthology of Contemporary Poetry AMAZON.COm