Poetry - Lynn White

  Infinite Improbability It was the Infinite Probability Drive that enabled the discovery. And once discovered  it could not be undiscovered. Nothing can be. Now, in the future, another lucky accident is enabling another discovery, a means of calculating the probability of everything. It is something, if not everything, that we need to know. Soon we shall probably, or improbably, know why. https://torigarchiapet.wixsite.com/ceasecaesura/projects-8?lightbox=dataItem-lws205p5__item-lwtfyh3o  

  Night Light There are light spaces in the dark Places for light to shine through, for stars to dance, for neons to cast their artificial glow. Hidden places where glowworms call to their mates.  And the infinite space where lightening cuts through the night time storm like glass and finds a home in some dark place and lights it up. https://torigarchiapet.wixsite.com/ceasecaesura/projects-8?lightbox=dataItem-lws205p5__item-lwtfyh3o

  Powerman The masked figure bristles with power, unmistakable   untouchable the spirits and demons held close inside him to be released at his behest. But only in Africa. When he leaves, stolen taken then he’s powerless defrocked unmasked like all the other stolen ones. So much power left behind in Africa. https://www.ekphrastic.net/the-ekphrastic-challenges/nkisi-power-figure-ekphrastic-responses

 https://gobblersmasticadores.wordpress.com/2024/05/30/lynn-white-interview/ Lynn White   –   Shadow M. Since when do you write? What was an early experience where you learned that language had power? Probably two possibly contradictory experiences. From when I was 11, I had two longish bus journeys to school. In the early days (when I was punctual!) lots of working men were also on the bus into town. There was a conversation. One was having a mega moan (which I don’t remember). He finished by complaining about the huge amount of income tax he had to pay. His companion replied sardonically with: “I wish I did”. So I was impressed that a few words spoken with humour/irony can have more power and be more thought provoking than a long carefully planned piece. Secondly – at school for A Level literature we studied D H Lawrence. Now he’s a wordy writer, but his words are so beautifully evocative that he brings his communities to life and makes the reader understand the world ...

  Performance Art He’s the last man standing. And whether comedian or statesman performance is all for the last man standing. Standing in the rubble of the city. Standing on the bodies of the dead heroes, those lions led by donkeys once again. No more laughter, no more tears, the final curtain came down on them. Hollow victory or glorious defeat it’s all the same to them. But the last man still stands, the star of the show temporarily. http://www.athinsliceofanxiety.com/2024/05/poetry-selections-from-lynn-white.html?m=1  

  A Face In The Crowd Once I could be seen, was known by my face,  my dress, my demeanour recognisable in a crowd. Now I have disappeared.  Even if larger than life, even if upside down I would still be invisible. A few wrinkles is all it took to fade away to become less  than a face in the crowd. To become no one. http://www.athinsliceofanxiety.com/2024/05/poetry-selections-from-lynn-white.html?m=1  

  I Was Not Like Her I was not like her, the girl in the picture looking out scowling defiant rebellious. No I was not like her not me not then. I wore the gloves in summer  that my mother bought me the classic cut clothes  that she had always  wanted to wear even allowed my hair to curl as it wanted to as she wanted it to. No I was not like her, the one in the picture not then. But when I broke free made myself up wore minis or long skirts controlled my curls with an iron in hand yes I think I became her then. http://www.athinsliceofanxiety.com/2024/05/poetry-selections-from-lynn-white.html?m=1  

 Grains of Time Time is running out for me And I sit here gazing into space Watching each grain trickle away. I can't catch them, Can't stop them, Can't slow them down Or speed them up. I can only live the moment As it passes. http://www.athinsliceofanxiety.com/2024/05/poetry-selections-from-lynn-white.html?m=1    

  River I look into the river and see myself in reflection. Colour fast but unstable, I move helplessly in its flow. I am constantly being moved and changed, but left stationary, moved but not moving on  like the fishes and pebbles.  Here I am, disturbed and abstracted, surrounded by this rippling, babbling, watery world,  which leaves me unclear who I am and, more unclear about the solidity of my background and what is happening around me. I look into two worlds which are intermingling, becoming inseparable before my gaze. My own distorted image fades and breaks with the images behind and beyond me in the background of my life. This river is becoming a metaphor for my own confusion. For the displacement and fragmentation I feel inside.  I am in danger of being broken up and washed away. Unable to bring myself together, I remain in pieces, undecided, lacking definition. It is also a metaphor which stretches beyond my person,  into the confusion and fragment...

  When The Moon Ate The Dark They were observant people who saw the night black   already unbroken   by pinpoint stars. Black   even before the moon   scoffed   then swallowed eating up the dark and leaving only a ring   of white moonlight for breakfast with nothing to come for afters   but spatters of spewed out stars. They could hardly believe it but still they felt that only black days could follow such an apocalypse a world without light a world without life an apocalyptic eclipse. https://hereticsloversmadmen.com/2024/05/28/when-the-moon-ate-the-dark-lynn-white/

  Is this a courtship?  Can this be the jewel of love?  Jewel of India?  Certainly a takeaway, with our poet Lynn White on Day 542 of the daily poems Sweet Heart He’d seen it glint earlier when a shaft of light hit the open box. He kept watch till they left. Back now, still watchful. Turn his head this way, then that.  No cats. No humans. Upturned the box  and seized his prize glinting gold among the dull browns and creams. Carried it off. Then carried it home, a home now fit for his new lover, his sweet heart. But he didn’t unwrap it. Didn’t discover the greater prize lying under the surface glitter. Didn’t find the jewel  of sweetness in the centre. Soon life dulled the surface glitter, screwed it up. And  the sweet heart  melted in the warmth, Melted into sticky goo. Melted away as sweet hearts do. https://poetrywivenhoe.org/todays-poem/