Storyteller of the Week

  Lynn White

 

 

Lynn White photo by her husband Dave Marks

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 for the Theatre Cloud 'War Poetry for Today' award with her poem 'A Rose For Gaza' 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 Journal, Firewords, Capsule Stories, Gyroscope Review, Blue Pepper, Arachne Press, Anti Heroin Chic and So It Goes.

Lynn began writing poetry as a teen in Sheffield, England, but didn’t start publishing poetry until she retired. She was trained as an occupational therapist at Liverpool College of Occupational Therapy and was employed in many different fields throughout her working life, usually working part time alongside voluntary work. She also took a break and ran a garden nursery for several years, doing occasional locums, just to keep her hand in!

Later again she achieved a first class degree and an M Ed from the Open University and Tutored two Social Science courses while working as a Community Occupational Therapist.

Retirement took her to a small ex-industrial town in the beautiful mountains of north Wales and it is here that she once again began to write poetry.

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

Comments by Sharon Waller Knutson

When I first read the poetry of Lynn White, I was impressed by her signature style and her charming and delightful stories about her life in a country where I have never visited. Her poems have personality and depth. She puts me in the poem and I feel her feelings, think her thoughts and experience her life/.

Even though we live in different countries, I identify with Lynn because she too lives among the wildlife in the mountains, her husband is a photographer like mine and her journey of writing poetry is similar to mine.

“I always loved writing,” Lynn says. “As a child I made up stories and I began to write poetry in my teens when living in Sheffield.  It was a different age then  - no internet, so much harder to get work published except in very local and rather tatty pamphlets. I have only four poems that survived from that time - they had been used as bookmarks! They’ve been much edited since then, but the themes of identity and dreams and style of writing are not dissimilar to some of my present poems.”

I am proud to publish five poems from Lynn:

Button Box
 
I loved playing with the buttons
in ‘Grandma’ Kirk’s button box.
She wasn’t my real grandma
but mum’s friend
who used to have a Chip Shop nearby.
When she died ‘Auntie’ Stacey,
(who wasn’t my real aunt either),
took the money
that Grandma Kirk had hidden
under the floorboards,
even though it had been left to mum.
She was a bad ‘un,
my mum said.
The £200 that was in the bank
was all that was left.
She showed the bank manager
the hole in the floor.
He looked amazed
my mum said.
He said to leave it with him
and she heard no more.
 
I inherited the button box.

On A Sunny Sunday

It was a sunny Sunday,
a perfect day.
So he dressed them in their
Sunday best
and they went to the park
to play on the swings
and roundabouts.
My father.
My half brother and sister
on a sunny Sunday.
They were surprised
to meet her
as they walked home.
They were surprised
to see that
she was carrying a suitcase.
They were surprised
when she said goodbye.
They didn’t believe it
so they went home
to their new council house
to wait.
She never came back.
It had not been a happy home.
She could be violent.
But it was their home.
She never came back.
So they moved to his parents
where they were
only grudgingly accepted.
It was not a happy move
but it was the best he could do.
Sometimes on a sunny Sunday
she would leave the hospital,
escape in search of her family.
But they never found each other
again.

First published in Nightingale And Sparrow, Heat issue.  

 

 

Gloria

I called the doll Gloria.
I no longer know why.
My father bought her for me
on a trip to the seaside,
on my first trip to the seaside.
I was bored with the endless sand
and the cold grey sea
and with the effort of pretending
to enjoy myself
on my expensive treat,
at the seaside.
We went to a toyshop after
and my father bought me the doll.
I called her Gloria.
I no longer no why.
Perhaps it was the name he suggested.
Or maybe my mother suggested it
when I couldn’t decide.
I don’t remember.
But I remember the doll.
She had real hair that I could comb.
But it turned out to be plastic,
nylon, I think.
And
after I had combed it a few times,
the whole lot came off leaving her bald.
Yes
without her wig she was completely bald,
my Gloria.
 

 

The Christmas Treat

It was my first Christmas in school
and we were getting a treat,
something special,
something nice.
Paper serviettes were handed out
and we placed them on our desks,
our mouths watering in anticipation.
And then came the cake,
a splendid fruit cake
coated with marzipan,
iced and cut
into slices,
one for each child.
What a treat!
I didn’t like marzipan,
so I ate the icing
and the cake
and left the marzipan to be thrown away
with the paper serviette.
But this was not allowed,
the teacher said.
All of the treat must be eaten.
I didn’t want to eat it.
Well, adults aren’t made to eat food
that they don’t like, are they,
so why should children?
It wasn’t fair.
It wasn’t just.
The teacher disagreed.
I must eat the treat,
she said.
So I threw it on the floor,
and to make sure,
stamped on it.
I was made to stand on a chair
in disgrace for not eating the treat.
At four years old,
it was my first encounter
with irony.

First published in Free Lit Magazine

 

Miss Pass

My first best friend was Susan.
We were inseparable.
Soon we would be starting school.
Starting at the same school.
It shouldn’t be a problem.
But Susan was three months older
and this was a problem.
She must start earlier
and we would be parted.
Unthinkable!!
Such concern from our parents.
But all was well.
It wouldn’t be a problem.
And all thanks to Miss Pass,
the headmistress,
a wonderful woman
who understood the feelings
of small children.
We could start together
and in the same class.
She was a shining example
to teachers everywhere.
We knew it as we hung our coats
on pegs next to each other
in the cloakroom.

But a few days later
when we had settled in,
disaster struck.
We were to be in different classes.
Such tears and trauma
as we hugged and kissed
and said goodbye at our pegs
in the cloakroom
each morning and afternoon.
And all because of Miss Pass,
the headmistress,
a stupid woman
who had no idea about the feelings
of small children
and should never have been allowed
to be a teacher anywhere.
We knew it as we hung our coats
on pegs next to each other
in the cloakroom.

First published by Piker Press, 2016