Poetry: Selections from Lynn White

Better Together

We will always be together,

said my little brother

if he felt lonely

or if we were sad.

I would give him a hug

to comfort us both 

we will, we will.

We will always have each other

always walk together

even if broken into little pieces

even if distorted by pain

we will pick up the pieces somehow

and put them back together

even if they’re re-arranged

even if not in the same places

we will still be us

together.

But later

we forgot

and walked away

from each other.

Sky Diving

Stand back.

You don’t have to push me,

I’m going to jump.

Here I go,

I’m going to jump,

stand back,

you don’t have to push me,

I’m going to jump!

Here I go 

any second now. 

Stand back.

Don’t push me.

I’m ready

to jump.

Did I miss my slot?

Your Blue Eyed Boy

The response to any creative work

is subjective

necessarily so

inevitably.

But for a novel to work successfully

for any one of us

we must identify

with the characters,

feel for them,

care about them,

at least for one of them.

Surely that is true.

I always believed it.

So Dunmore’s “Your Blue Eyed Boy”

is an anomaly.

I don’t like any

of the characters.

Don’t identify with them or  with any part 

of their lives.

Don’t aspire

to any of it,

never did.

So why do these people reach into the core

of my being,

speak to me

so strongly,

touch me so 

deeply,

roll around my head like an ear worm.

I don’t understand it.

But they do.

Luck Of The Irish

The Irish love their horses.

It’s a long tradition

which survives urbanisation

among young working class people

in parts of Dublin,

people seemingly like me.

They take them along the city streets,

into supermarkets, on buses,

even up in the lift to their new home 

on the balcony of an apartment.

The stories are legion.

And the Irish love their stories.

But I was not like them.

I couldn’t be part of that story.

I find horses just too big, too strong,

too high from the ground.

Even on a seaside donkey I was afraid

I’d take a tumble from the saddle

or be nudged and trampled into the sand.

I was sure that it was only 

by the luck of the Irish

that I survived.

Yes, Lady Luck loves the Irish.

But I know for certain now

that when I join that wild eyed horse

on the balcony

the luck of the Irish

is bound to desert me.

First published in Orange Blush Journal, November 2020

Sneak Peek

My first attempt at throwing a pot

was not successful.

My large lump of clay twisted and turned

on the wheel

till it became cup size

then egg cup size.

I rather liked my egg cup in the end,

well, not quite the end,

it’s final end came in the kiln

with bang.

Who would have thought then that potting

would become my trade,

my living,

certainly not me.

But that’s what happened for a while.

Look here’s a sneak peek

into my studio 

the grainy black and white

showing it’s age.

It’s all gathering dust now

so a sneak peek is all I can offer,

just a glimpse of how things were

a long time ago.

First published in Visual Verse, May 2019

Lynn White lives in north Wales. Her work is influenced by issues of social justice and events, places and people she has known or imagined. She is especially interested in exploring the boundaries of dream, fantasy and reality. She was shortlisted in the Theatre Cloud 'War Poetry for Today' competition and has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net and a Rhysling Award.