A Poem inspired by Andy Warhol from Lynn White

Off the Wall

“Ceci n’est pas de la soupe de tomates”
Magritte might have said with irony.
But even off the wall 
straight from the can 
the same may be said!
And language spills out
with the contents.
“Quelle horreur!” 
say the gourmets in French.
But Warhol was as American
as Magritte was Belgian.
Irony on irony.

Bio: 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. Find Lynn at: https://lynnwhitepoetry.blogspot.com and https://www.facebook.com/Lynn-White-Poetry-1603675983213077/

Poetry Online Anthology “The Artist Never Sleeps”

all artwork sent in by Pasithea Chan for these amazing artists.

“i was a thin sea of blue” by Paula Hayes

didn't you know,  love, i was a thin sea of blue
        waiting for you to come along
                       and fill yourself
                               inside my creases
                                      to drink me in between your restless
                                thoughts

wade inward
                   i asked you to come closer
                         so i could please you
                                but you ignored my pleas
                                       and left like some tug of gravity
                                                                    was waiting for
                                                                           to carry you
                                                                     away

where are the gods, now, to bring the waters back
                up to my lips
                         to give a little salt in return
                                 for all i've lost; is that too much to
                         ask?   just a little salt to take down
                                          even if there is no quenching
                                                               in hapless mornings

there is sky and sea and sun
        all making for soft horizons
              pretending these natural elements
                     are some kind of boundary
                            sealing off what was meant to hurt me
                                            from where i stand now

sucker-punched and drunk in the orange of waves
	light, all light, radiant and forgotten 
while two birds, lovers no less, fly by me
		certain that they are far away 
			from what they once knew
				and even more certain
					they have nowhere left to go 

Bio: Paula Hayes is a poet who lives in Memphis, Tennessee, the same place where rock and roll was birthed and where the ghost of Elvis still hangs around Beale Street. She finds the presence of such a rich musical history in the town she lives in to be right on track with transforming one as a poet into a bard. 

Alice Checks the Queen by Lynn White
in response to Anita Arbidane artwork

‘Your time is up’ said Alice.
She knew it didn’t matter
how big she was
or how small
in the end.
She knew it didn’t matter 
in the end
whether the queen was red or white,
whether time moved backwards or forwards.
In the end
there was still no stopping it, 
still no changing it
however many time-pieces the Queen owned,
however many times she moved the hands
on or back on the clock-face.
It made no difference.
‘You’re just a pawn
on the wheel of time’
said Alice,
‘No wonder you look glum’

Bio: 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. Find Lynn at: https://lynnwhitepoetry.blogspot.com and https://www.facebook.com/Lynn-White-Poetry-1603675983213077/

"October Hardcover" by James Schwartz

Shifting season of melancholy, 

                            Dark bark decay,


Lighting of lamps,

In the v

                a
     
                     l  

                         l  

                             e 

                                  y    
    
                         Against frosted fog,

Shorn corn stalks,


                         Lost leaden leaves,

Cafe au lait, 

Notes of nutmeg,

                Window seat, 

Victor Hugo hardcover.


Bio: James Schwartz is a poet, slam performer and author of various collections including "The Literary Party: Growing Up Gay & Amish in America" (available on Kindle 2011), PUnatic (Writing Knights Press, 2019) & Motor City Mix (Alien Buddha Press 2022). on twitter James can be found under @queeraspoetry for a follow.


Art inspired by Clive Gresswell

life’s ballet cycle
causes me to pause
in the twinkling of a romantic pose
inherited by nature’s mystique
the floral fauna and reddening leaves
flutter inside my mind’s eye
caught in the season’s harsh mirror
light infernal, light eternal
rays of the insect fanning down
the earth’s delightful eternal gown.

Bio: Clive Gresswell is a 64-year-old innovative writer and poet who has appeared in many mags from BlazeVOX to Poetry Wars and Tears in the Fence. He is the author of five poetry books the last two being ‘Strings’ and ‘Atoms’ from erbacce-press (see their website for more details).













Poetry Inspired by Art from Rene Magritte a Belgian Surrealist Painter

(c) Rene Magritte

Heels & Caged Minds by Pasithea Chan

You don’t have to wear my heels to know how it feels-
to walk in my shoes and be unable to choose.
Yet you choose to keep your distance and use-
all that I see to maroon me in your desolate sea.
 
I look into your eyes and feel them slice
through my heart as you take me apart.
I give you my back, but you keep track
of all that I despise spicing them with lies.
 
You wear your ambitions like a hat
cutting through clouds as you tread my grounds.
I collide into you trying to get to you
only to realize I’ve lost you not to you.
 
You’ve lost all expression as I have no intention-
to change your opinion or seek your affirmation.
I’ve made my decision; you are not my redemption.
Thank you for your manipulation and oppression.
I now follow my passion not your obsession.
 
In your eyes, my kind wear heels to experience
your passion as a privilege of being conquered.
Today, I wear heels to remind myself how it feels
to be happy tipping over your entitled kind.
It is my right to live a free life with a free mind 
free of caged mentalities and cagey personalities.  

A Poetry Showcase with Pasithea Chan (September 2022)


Clouded Vision by Lynn White

I knew you were there,
out here
somewhere.
I tried to find you
but my vision clouded.
With my head in the clouds
I could only dream.

Now I know
I must let you go
free.
Free with the birds. 

Poetry Showcase from Lynn White




Poetry from Lynn White Inspired by Sylvia Plath & Anne Sexton

(c) Nina Wadhouse
https://www.literaryladiesguide.com/literary-musings/artists-portraits-of-sylvia-plath/
Keeping Mum

At nine years old
she’d never had a chance 
to know her father.
Not to know about his life,
his personality,
or his dreams,
Only that he loved her
and had been frail and ill
all her life.
“She never even asks how her father is”,
said her mother’s friend disapprovingly.
Her mother must have told her that.
“They won’t tell me, so there’s no point
in asking”, she thought.
No!
I think she said!
They wouldn’t tell her why 
he was in hospital.
They wouldn’t tell her why
he died,
not at nine years old,
not until years later
when they were all dead
and more voices could speak.

Motherly Love

I have spent a lifetime 
trying to break away,
trying to break out, 
trying to find myself.
Always on the edge,
always on the outside,
not quite a part,
of it, not quite 
a beatnik,
or a mod, 
hippy, or 
punk.

I was early to realise that
what she wanted me to be
was what she had wanted 
for herself, about her, not me.
I wanted to escape such love.
I thought I could escape.
I thought I had escaped.
And I did, surely I did
escape
some 
of it.

But not all.
Not enough.
So even now I feel tethered.
After all this time of leaving
her behind, 
I remain 
unsure
of my 
own.


First published in Yellow Chair Review, June 2016

My Sister Maud

I had a sister once.
Her name was Maud.
I never knew her,
never even knew of her.
No one said.
Not our father, 
or his son,
not my mother, 
no one.
No one spoke.
All were mute for Maud.

She never grew old,
never even grew up.
And her little life 
became engulfed in silence.
My father cried 
when she died,
I know it now
more than eighty years later
I know it.
When there’s no one living 
who knew her.
When there is no one left
to tell me her favourite games,
her hopes, her dreams. 
All are gone.

I know it now.
I even have a photograph
so that I can see her,
picture her as she was.
And I won’t forget her,
won’t forget that
I had a sister once.
Her name was Maud.


First published in Blue Heron Review, Summer 2018

Bio: 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 and writes hoping to find an audience for her musings. 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. Her poetry has appeared in many publications including: Consequence Magazine, Firewords, Capsule Stories, Light Journal and So It Goes. Find Lynn at: https://lynnwhitepoetry.blogspot.com and https://www.facebook.com/Lynn-White-Poetry-1603675983213077/

Poetry Showcase from Lynn White

from pixabay

American Dream

We were such special people then, 
the two of us, flying high above the rest
like the arrogant angels we saw 
playing way above the clouds.
We could almost touch them
with our arms outstretched,
as we danced our way through 
a cinemascope of endless possibilities.

But other people were unimpressed.
They had no wish to touch the angels, 
or reach the stars, even if they could.
They looked down towards us, not up,
fulfilled and sacred to each other, 
with a specialness unknown to us.
We did not hear the soundtrack of their voices.
Did not see the fractures of their dreams,
or of ours to come.

But now we have become the rest
and know that we were not so special then. 
But just practicing for a life that would elude us 
as dreams remained dreams in cinemascope.
Dreams which became decayed imaginings 
growing dusty with time and fading,
as ordinariness reclaimed us and the angels let us fall. 


First published by Amomancies, Issue 5, Americana

A Not So Still Life

What a strange tableau,
a still life 
still
living 
in a dream.
The birds flew over
and looked down on it,
but there was no place for them 
to hang out,
to roost, 
to dream.
So they didn’t care about the dust motes
escaping into the sunlight
floating like fairy dust
getting themselves organised
to follow their dream.
Did they escape
from the jar?
Perhaps.
Though 
the bull is wondering 
if they were ever inside
and the birds don’t care as usual,
hardly notice her dog emerging 
from the mist to inspect them. 
Unmistakably her dog
just more amorphous than usual.
It doesn’t look inclined to chase the motes
or stick its head inside the loop they’re making.
But the birds don’t care as usual.

Only Dream Harder

If you dream hard enough
you’ll find castles in the air,
or build them.
If you dream hard enough
you’ll find secret cities 
under the waves
ruled over by a fishy king
with his beady eye on you
as you walk on by.
If you dream hard enough
you’ll find unicorns
and ride them across the desert
to discover lost oases hidden there
amongst ancient cities 
once in ruins
now recast 
in shimmering perfection
by harsh sunlight.
If you dreamer harder 
you’ll rise above the waves of sand
which threaten to engulf you,
float in the sunlight
instead of being buried 
head first.
It’s all possible
if you only dream harder.

First published in Event Horizon, Issue 6, November 2018

Dreaming

'To sleep perchance to dream'.
That’s what he said.
Sounds so gentle,
but there’s a rub,
a rough edge to this sleepy escape
that would see me float away
sending me spinning,
out of control
tumbling,
raging,
spiralling,
crashing
to an indeterminate end.

So perhaps it’s daytime dreaming 
that has the edge
to smoothly move me
from one place to another.
In wakeful dreams
I can determine the beginning,
at least,
and invite the participants.
Sometimes
they may act out an old story
with a predictable end.
Sometimes 
I can write a new story
and then

bring it to life.


First published in Flight of the Dragonfly, September 2021

Dream Catchers

These hairy, feathery, stringy things
are supposed to catch my dreams,
but I don’t believe it.
I’ve hung them above my bed and
inspected them carefully in the morning
but I’ve never found a dream caught
in them,
Not even a tiny dreamlet.
No,
they’re just a trick,
a deception, to make me feel
I can capture them and relive them
when I want to.
But I can’t.
No one can ever go back to a dream.


First published in Poetry Breakfast, April 21, 2016



Bio: 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 and writes hoping to find an audience for her musings. 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. Her poetry has appeared in many publications including: Consequence Magazine, Firewords, Capsule Stories, Light Journal and So It Goes. Find Lynn at: https://lynnwhitepoetry.blogspot.com and https://www.facebook.com/Lynn-White-Poetry-1603675983213077/