Poetry - Lynn White

  A Balanced Account A balanced account needs equality of voice   loud or sotto voce equally heard equivalent not judged but equally weighted and valued - the accounts of the murderers   and the murdered (if they could have a voice), the accounts of the bombers   and the bombed (if the scattered pieces could speak), the accounts of the sinners   and the sinned against (their reward is in some heaven), the accounts based on knowledge and those based on lies   (so hard to tell the difference). Their weight may be balanced until power intervenes to tip the scales in its direction. A balance of power, the weight of equals. History weighs it up. https://poetsonline.org/archive/arch_balance.html

  Suffer The Little Children Poets are dangerous. Naming the dead   leads to arrest. The killing   of some, by some is fine, unlike the threatening nature of reading a poem. And the unmentionables, the nameless children, must suffer silently. Poets are ‘The Brave’ in Scotland today. Poetry is dangerous. (context - A Scottish pro-Palestine activist faced charges for “threatening and abusive behaviour” after reading a poem about children killed by Israel. Bill Williamson, 74, said he had been at a weekly Palestine vigil outside Dunoon Burgh Hall on July 4 2026, while he was reading out “Don’t Mention The Children” by the Jewish writer Michael Rosen through a megaphone. — The National (Scotland), July 19, 2026) https://dsmag.in/2026/09/27/lynn-whites-two-poems-7/

  After All Once, in Ireland one million died, and one million more fled   for their lives, the equivalent of the population of Gaza before….. And no help came when the potato crop was blighted. Still potatoes were exported, the farmers betrayed whilst landlords did well. The colonialists did well. They always do. So, Ireland knows how betrayal feels in the depth of its turf, in the depth of its being, its rock, its stones,   its body filled bogs,   its bleached bones knows that   change comes only   with survival.   So Ireland leads its history shows its time to speak out to send Aid to make a stand un-welcomed   again by the most powerful. After all Ireland knows how lives are blighted.   https://dsmag.in/2026/09/27/lynn-whites-two-poems-7/

  Then The girl in the portrait is 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. https://poetrywivenhoe.org/2026/10/day-1398-then-white/

  Roundabout He picked us up near Torino, a dapper Frenchman   with an impressive moustache. He was going to Nice. So were we! Such luck. One lift all the way from Torino to Nice. We settled back to enjoy the ride. We came to a roundabout. With gesticulations of frustration and twitches of his moustache, he missed the turning. We went round again and the next time, he missed it again. The third time we were ready to call out and point it out in good time. But with more expansive gesticulating and moustache twitching he still missed it. There were many roundabouts   between Torino and Nice. We came to know them intimately. On arrival we were hugged and kissed in thanks for our help. Without us, who could say where he’d be. Not us, for sure! He invited us to accompany him to Monte Carlo the next day, if we would like to. Yes! We would like to! We turned up at the allotted time and place, but he never came. So, we never went to Monte Carlo. Possibly he never went there eithe...

  Dear Juliet Listen to a father’s foreboding it’s a difficult time   when you’re half grown. No longer a child, but not yet an adult. Half grown with fully formed temptations, and such contempt for adults, fathers especially, you always know best but listen, the forbidden fruit of first love is poisonous   not for tasting and when the feuds of the fathers meet the dreams of the fathered there are no happy endings. You always knew best until you didn’t. So listen and heed a father’s foreboding. https://stortellerpoetryreview.blogspot.com/2026/10/super-sized-series_0144647558.html?fbclid=IwY2xjawUsncVleHRuA2FlbQIxMQBwZG9mAXNydGMGYXBwX2lkEDIyMjAzOTE3ODgyMDA4OTIAAR70iAhpShFlRjIVV68JlTNUuZFP4p5VLa7jdIpTnWfm2mHLXVeCvSwMUMdGnw_aem_DipXdDuhDU3CbEhbVaaf8Q

  Split Open Crystal found it on a beach when she was lying there sunbathing face down, just a rock split open lying like her face down, hiding its jewel. Cleaned of sand it gleamed and shone its colours made for her its shape pubescent iridescent a magic match for her nails, her bikini, her flesh. She rose. Stood. Held it before her exposed her crystal, her jewel held it safe. https://www.ekphrastic.net/the-ekphrastic-challenges/madelyn-roldan-ekphrastic-writing-responses-curated-by-kate-copeland