Poetry - Lynn White

  Hindsight On ICE We thought we’d done it! Created the basis for a future based on peace and love and human rights. Even a pandemic couldn’t stop us at Woodstock. We watched as in diverse countries the rebels become statesmen and we thought the struggle over. And then later, we came to understand that peace will only get its chance in our imaginations in this world where violence and hypocrisy are spiralling beyond our imagining. I thought that if we could go back with that knowledge, with that hindsight, would I be there for me to find. Would any of us be there alongside Lennon if he was there. But here we are again, moving. not frozen in ice, moving, not frozen by ICE. https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0H4YS8Z23/

  Time To Tell Mr and Mrs Hill lived next door,   Violet and Jack. My mother would send me round with messages and as a child, it was always Violet who opened the door. But as I grew older, it was always Jack who opened the door. He would engulf me in a tight hug and force hard kisses on my mouth. I tried to find excuses not to go there, but my mother didn’t understand and I couldn’t tell, not then. I knew no one would believe, that it would be my name blighted for such deviance, for telling such lies about such a nice, kindly and quiet man, a grandfather figure whose name would stay pure. Years later as my wedding day drew near and invitations were being sent out, Violet told the neighbourhood that ‘grandad’ was the first to be invited. But he was not invited. Even though his granddaughters were bridesmaids. Even though his son was the Photographer. Even though his daughter drove me to the church in her bedecked Morris Minor. He was not invited. And now it’s time to tell all ...

  After Breakfast Smoking was forbidden especially at the breakfast table. She knew it was against all the house rules, knew it was time for her to tidy up the debris on the table. Her parents taught her well. She listened. She heard them. She thinks of them now as she sits and smokes   after breakfast. https://ourpoetryarchive.blogspot.com/2026/07/lynn-white.html

  Story Teller She’s lived a long time, even longer than her years. Every line is a poem of coloured beads, every wrinkle tells a story, her story,   her history, her life, her peoples story their lives,   their stories, the ones her mother told and her mother, the ones her father told and his father. Generation after generation still living with her in her stories. https://ourpoetryarchive.blogspot.com/2026/07/lynn-white.html

  Nothing In those streets of men and boys, in that country   for men and boys, she feels like a person with no face, her face space covered, her identity occupied by a swirling mist of confusion like nothingness being born. Sometimes   she wishes for a blank space that she could fill herself with a Magritte apple or even a woman even herself un-blanked and visible. Now, in those streets of men and boys, in that country   for men and boys, she feels like a person with no voice, Magritte’s apple is choking her, muting her so even in her home she whispers her songs and curses. Only in her head does she shout that something will come of nothing, that something must come of nothing. https://ourpoetryarchive.blogspot.com/2026/07/lynn-white.html

  Facing Up You’re looking past her avoiding her eyes, the eyes of the woman in the front line of the protest the one who reminds you of your mother or your mother in law or your grandmother or all of them together. You don’t need to look at her, don’t need to meet the challenge of her eyes, you have the power   you have the choice to look past her. You can do anything so long as you don’t face her so long as you don’t cower you have the power. You know it   when you collect your pay check when you slither on your belly in the wet fetid gutter to collect your police pay check and take it home   to your wife or mother or grandmother ready to meet her eyes proudly if only you could open the door if only she would open the door if only she would let you in if only your key would still fit her lock if only she would still look in your eyes. But she has the power to look past you. She knows it. She knew it then. You know it now. https://ourpoetryarchive.blogspot.com/2026/...