Suzy Hazelwood does a beautiful job of curating the literary journal “The Writer’s Garden” here on WordPress. I’m honored to be in the current issue. The Writer’s Garden
Author Archives: Jana H White
Akimbo
~
there are no round corners
my imagination is akimbo
jolts of current spark within context
without setting light
What to do?
~
I gather the dexterity needed
and carry it to the scales
only to find
it weighs more than I do
~
my skin is transparent
I employ a magnifying glass
angling towards the sun
the beam passes right through me
blazing and unhindered
~
I bulk up
looking for muscular advantage
and slip easily into the crowd
our words are hot but cool off fast
leaving nuggets between my teeth
~
I turn invisible
and pass easily through the crowd
floating a few inches off the ground
I still stub my toe
while leaving no footprints
~
I want to weep like a child
but worrying about the leak
I put duct tape on my face
covering my mouth
leaving space for my eyes
~
awkward and exploding
my imagination
is no longer rooted
in safe ground
I am uncomfortable
I am vulnerable
profusely sweating
in the slipstream
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
painting and poem: Jana H. White
Neon nightmare dog
~
Neon nightmare dog frightening a child’s dream
Each curly golden hair aflame with water drops prisming the sun
~
Coyote jaws salivating raw fluids wetting lips held in grimace face
Smiling on my small life. I am alive. I am alive. How long has it been?
~
You appear now as if we are friends old man, for man dog you are
Holding all life’s genders in your jaws, all our unpaid bills
~
Your karmic pinball game has kept me lean with a taste for wine
Too often a static cliche′ tumbling through icons of improbable possibilities
~
Show your real face and prove me wrong
There are no mirrors in this dark place. No broken glass. Only song.
~
Another “form” to tackle. This time an Epistle. I decided to wing it. See what came up through the pipeline without placing “form” anywhere near it accept while writing it down. I woke up this morning and there it was. This is the first draft. The nightmare was real and one I remember having around 3 years old that has stayed with me visually. Made me wary of dogs for years until my father told me dogs need to hold their mouths open to breath. Perhaps they drool. When I was looking for who to write an epistle to, the face of this nightmare coyote showed up. It was thrilling physically to address this nightmare face and I thoroughly enjoyed writing this. I am going to start thinking of writing forms as a “form tango” and learn to hold my own.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Artist: Doug Lawler
Momma clock
~
You were never adventurous
insisting on sticking to interaction
proscribed a sure thing
trying to be a “good girl” but always told
you were never good enough…
I spent my days intoxicated by a flower’s breath
building new homes out of cardboard or snow
exhuming pets I was curious about death
and bones and teeth
climbing trees listening to their heart sap
nipping change from Norman’s penny jar
just for the sneak of it
not caring much about showing my girl parts
to the neighbor boys
And there you were pushing me off
unsteady on two bicycle wheels
as if your moods weren’t the day’s bad weather
and me always approaching you with the caution
of the kid held flat out in high winds
and now you were casting me off like a baby bird
as if you yourself knew how to fly
Well…little did I know your strange insistence
was giving me more than wings
your internal Mamma clock was saying
it was time I learned to really fly
even though you knew
I’d take off and keep rolling
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Art by Terry Turrell
Pencil Dust
~
Indomitable as a sovereign species
progress draws its discordant lines
straight through the rhythms of my days
move…
A bucolic bovine sound?
Or a swarm of ooooooo’s
persistent and indicative of shove?
five toothbrushes
pail of sponges
caustic powders
poisonous sprays
My disciples of progress
grooming the delicate interstices of
refrigerator seal
baseboard cracks
faucet edge
I wash the wood and plaster body
My thoughts anointing and releasing
each surface that held the poems, the remnants, the family,
the guests, the conversations, the discipline that twisted time
into sailor’s knots and tied dreams into a body of words
able to float in this deluge of constant progress
This particular move (one of too many to count)
This wood and plaster body
that held me disciplined within panes of glass
where I grew words into lines, into paragraphs, into pages, into life
enclosed in winter and summer solitude behind the glass
Erasing all outward signs of a life
We have nothing in common
this place and I
We have nothing now in common
except the fine pile of pencil dust
intentionally left behind
scrumbled raw into the grains of wood
in the floor of my kitchen
Finished, I set the keys on the counter
leaving progress
behind
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The past few weeks have been a scramble. In mid March my landlady informed me that she is downsizing, selling her house, which she has run as a Bed and Breakfast, and will be moving into my apartment! In a city with a 1% vacancy rate, after 3 years tenancy, she asked that I be out in 34 days. She also holds my last month’s rent and a considerable security deposit. She apparently needs to legalize the fact that she has three units behind the house that she successfully rents by the day, week, or month through Air B&B. This is illegal in this city unless the owner lives on the premises. If caught this may incur a $500 a day fine. I think she still may not be in full compliance because two of the units are unattached, but she’s getting closer to her cash flow.
I beat the deadline she set by ten days. Sanctuary! I am now back in the garden….
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Noh mask: Acrylic and graphite on black paper…. j.h.white
~
osmosis
~
thought hovers
is this thought mine?
~
I watch the few words
just there
I look askance to see if they move
do they move of their own volition?
no
they hover
simultaneously
we’re moving through walls
what does this mean?
~
I once could hear through walls
I’d lost my skin
rendered immobile
I heard nuclear indifference
red lights green lights
flying metal and a dying jesus
I wet myself
although the bed stayed dry
~
I looked for what was left
at the time
I was empty
much later I understood
this was the right place to start
~
it takes awhile
starting from nothing
to un-know everything
~
we hover
not knowing
we move through walls
~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Acrylic on paper….j. h. white
Lumens
~
The push the pull the moon’s sculpting hands
Its broad face spilling transparent
over lunar mountains
Full bright
but veiled by cloud’s chattering
Obscured
yet still felt in the marrow
~
With a tactile sensing
for the peaks and dark hollows
My blood its own compass
I map the edge of the sea
as the tide recedes
filling the carved pools as it leaves
~
The clouds drift away in their own mystery
as the moon glides free
in luminous ascending
and I sway as a puppet in a shadow play
bathed in luminous manna
~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Pencil sketch and poetry: j.h.white
note: a photo attributed to Joshua Black Wilkins was the inspiration for the sketch. ( I was unable to verify the source however)
Jazz
~
The beams, thirsty in their plumb aligned structure,
drink deeply of the improvised sound issuing from the garden
The cello’s notes satiating the kiln dried wood
~
In an upstairs bedroom a woman moves to the music
unbidden thoughts seeping in slow aching, wandering
the intimate landscape still mapped within her heart
~
Shaking them loose, she leans precariously out of the window
listening to the ripening tenor notes, admitting she’s
grateful now to be by herself yet questioning…
~
What am I to do with my internal tenderness?
There is no one here to reach for
listening to the first bird’s song?
~
This softening moves through her
seeking to be moored in the infinite, not in the observed
third person distance of Wife or Her or She
~
Bending her head to the low deep notes of the cello
the forest memory of its burnished wood
resonates between her thighs
~
I’ve reawakened the elasticity of my flesh
by becoming weightless, a quickening again
There is no measure in this
~
Vulnerable it moves too fluidly to have a name
it spreads out and collects
like dark pools reflecting sky after rain
““““““““““““““““““““““““““““
~
Painting….Peter Harskamp
I dream of being a weed…
~
I dream of being a weed
traveling in my roots carving deep,
just carving, scraping away
letting go more of the surface
each time I tap deeper
~
These are restless nights
waking with soil packed tight
at the corner of eyes picking at
worm castings under fingernails
the scrim wrapped tight round my head
caked with quartz shards and clay
filaments of memory scattered about the floor
the moon an aboriginal instinct
~
I’m a veteran miner
more comfortable in the dark
where I can keep an eye on things
~
On the surface my tough rosettes
of green continue to vitamin the grassy bank
the untamed sun persisting in its pursuit
until finally … reluctant with abandon
~
There is no letting go. Why would I?
There is nothing of worth to carry…
All I can do is bloom
~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
drawing and poem …. j.h.white
Slow Infestation
~
He was a wolf …
a solitary wolf culled from the pack
expertly herding his words
through her undulate terrain.
She welcomed the seduction
amply savoring his patois.
~
Beguiled by his seeming intimacy
she failed to assimilate the slow infestation
of his oblique aural patternings
insinuating edgy consonants
and limbic vowel howls.
It was her stomach at first that resisted the enchantment
with small flutterings of continual distress.
Slowly she became aware
that his words were predictable
acid but effervescent
lying tips of tongues
corroding her silence.
They dangled from her
like wind chimes with little meaning
Their fractured light cascading
from her now weary ears
pummeling the surface.
So she gathered herself
and sent him,
and his errant words,
away
Though at times she could still hear their echoing…
The scent of him having so easily
permeated her skin.
~
To ward off this sonic residue
she bathed daily in lovage root and vervain
and made a tincture of his words,
a verbal potion dissolved in fine brandy
She took one dose timed exactly
as the cusp of the horizon split day into night
Delicately,
Three drops under her tongue,
with a twist…
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I had fun with this one. Looking over older work I saw a story weaving between a few different poems and so I threaded a needle and sewed them together. The drawing is an old one too. Newer than the poems, it is cut from the same cloth.
~
PoePoem and drawing: jana h white Drawing: Pastels on black paper
The Poetics of Light 