LYNN WHITE

 

 

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.

 

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.

 

 

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.

 

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.

 

 

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 about Jack Hill.

 

LYNN WHITE

 

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 has been nominated for Pushcarts, Best of the Net and a Rhysling Award.