Three Poems by Lynn White

 

Hattie’s Tea Party

“I find her quite intimidating, actually,”

said Dormouse sleepily,

“not the sweet little girl I expected

and I really hope Hattie 

doesn’t invite her

I don’t think she would

quite fit in.”

“Who the cares if she fits in or not,”

replied Rabbit firmly.

“In a mad world no one knows their place.

Hattie will be asking her questions

and he knows the importance of madness,

so if she can’t answer madly,

then she’ll have no place.”

But it was they who had no place,

they who were transformed,

consumed 

in the madness

so only the whiskers and ears 

of their old selves were left,

while Alice danced her way in, 

invited or not,

and sat in the spotlight

like a star.

And it was Hattie who had to leave.

Their cups were empty.

He had forgotten the tea.

The Old Hall

It was more Wuthering Heights than gingerbread house.

And the old woman living there alone

was no more a witch

than the raindrops

hanging

from the trees

were really diamonds.

We knew that.

Even though 

she said that they were.

And she gave us drinks candy bars.

Surely no witch would be so kind

to children who were trespassers

and teenagers looking to party.

We didn’t see the ghosts, 

not then.

But later 

we watched them dig up the garden

and under the drifts of snow

we smelled the flesh

and saw the bones

of past trespassers and party-goers. 

And afterwards,

nature reclaimed it’s space

so the hall stands empty

and no one else remembers 

an old woman

still

only

the raindrops remain

frozen in winter,

frozen in time

hard 

as diamonds

soft 

as tears.

Still

we don’t know

why.

First published in Belladonna’s Garden, Winter 2025

After The Party

It was a good party.

“you’ll be seeing pink elephants tonight”

they laughed.

I didn’t believe them

I thought the elephants would  be blue,

a better colour for me.

But it was me that was blue.

The elephant I was riding

was just 

elephant coloured.

It was a very good party.

First published in The Daily Drunk, April 2020

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.

 

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

One Poem by Gifford Savage

 

Roll Call

(i)

Present Sir –
the little voices chorused as they responded to their names.
It took seven minutes at the start of each class.
Present Sir,
one after another in turn.
Neat uniforms, school ties, 
skinned knees on child-size chairs behind ink-marked desks,
where others had sat before us in earnest attention.
A lifetime of possibilities stretching ahead,
though such thoughts were far from our young minds.
Present Sir –
I answered to my own name.
After school, toy soldiers were waiting.
Model warplanes skilfully constructed.
The bloody reality never intruding on playtime.

(ii)

It took seven hours for Cardinal Matteo Zuppi to call the roll.
Name after name of dead children.
469 pages.    12,227 names.
Read aloud in the park of Monte Sole di Marzabotto
in the ruined Church of Casaglia – burned by Nazi’s in 1944.
A place of suffering to remember all victims.
Name    after name     after name     after name.

       I’m so scared please come, 
       were little Hind Rami Iyad Rajab’s last words 
       on the telephone from the car as she fled with her family.
       Lana Ashraf Yasser Al-Ghusein’s parents called her ‘Lulu’ –
       Her nickname captured the gentle shine she brought to the family.
       Such a joyful personality, and a heart full of kindness,
       her mother Heba said through bitter tears.

Naama Abu Rashed, 14 hours old –
shot in her mother’s womb, October 7 2023,
Yaqueen Yousef Sam Al-Tilawi, one year old,
Mariam Ahmed Walid Owaida, age five,
Louay Mohammed Gathi Yaghi, age two,
Lana Ashraf Yasser Al-Ghusein, age ten,
Hind Rami Iyad Rajab, age five.
On and on Cardinal Zuppi called the roll.
Name    after name    after name    after name.

Not present sir. 

Gifford Savage is from Bangor, Northern Ireland. His poetry has been published in various journals, including Honest Ulsterman, Hedgehog Poetry Press, The Storms, Flight of the Dragonfly, The Bangor Literary Journal, Agape Review, The New Verse News and previously in Lothlorien Poetry Journal. He was included in the CAP anthology ‘Across the Threshold,’ has performed his poetry on local television station ‘Northern Visions TV’ and was winner of the Aspects Festival Poetry Slam 2022.