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Showing posts with label Something. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Something. Show all posts

Wednesday, August 28, 2024

NOTHING

by Lynn White


ABC (Australia), August 27, 2024


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.



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: Apogee, Firewords, Peach Velvet, Light Journal, and So It Goes.

Saturday, March 16, 2024

THE PATTIE BOYD COLLECTION AT CHRISTIE’S

by Jacqueline Coleman-Fried

 

 



Dear Beatles fans,

 

You may picture me as a saucer-eyed flower 

child with golden hair and thigh-high skirts. 

 

I’m eighty now, a lot more covered, a lot more knowing—

 

yet I still don’t understand why George 

soured on me. In “Something,” the song 

he wrote for me, he said I don’t need no other 

 

lover, but that was a lie. You should know—

like picking bon bons from a gift box, he slept 

with any girl he fancied. Until he slept with Ringo’s 

 

wife in our mansion—

yes, I caught them in a bedroom.

Eric, my second husband, pursued me for years, 

 

wrote “Layla” for me. But he, too, couldn’t keep

his sex in his pants. And he drank. 

When he had a child 

 

with his Italian lover, while I was trying

to have a child with him, 

I had to go. Demolished.

 

My womb refused to flower for either spouse.

 

Reading their letters now, thinking

how they trashed my love, is it any wonder

I’m selling these reminders?

 

Old age is expensive. 

The doctor visits, the tests, the treatments—

 

Once I was a sylph with the palest skin and hair, 

too naive to demand more alimony 

from two multi-millionaires

 

who slayed the world with their guitars.

 

 

Jacqueline Coleman-Fried is a poet living in Tuckahoe, NY. Her work has appeared in The New Verse News, Consequence, The Orchards Poetry Journal, and Sparks of Calliope.