Category Archives: Art
Blog Tour
I was double dared to join in the Blog Tour by my friend, and fellow blogger, John Clinock over at Art Rat Cafe. If you haven’t been over there, make haste and partake in some of John’s artful, sublimely intimate and open armed hospitality.
The rules of the Blog Tour are to cite the person who asked you to join, answer a few questions about your own creative process, and to invite three (or so) bloggers to the tour.
Why do I write what I write?
I began writing seriously about a year and a half ago. I needed to explain, also to myself, an experience I had that changed the way I view my life and the world.
I started this blog, knowing that I didn’t want to work in a vacuum. At the time, my identity, that I considered once stable and solid, shimmed across the surface intangible as a heat wave. Uprooted from everything I’d known for decades, I was gravel in a hot dryer. It was a perfect time to begin something new. So I intuitively jumped in with enthusiasm if not vigor.
Within a few posts my word count distilled into a poetic language. I abandoned prose, for the most part, and embraced poetry encouraged by the fact I could say exactly what I meant without having to use so many words.
I’ve gone through many phases as they lead me along. Words are both holy and often an aphrodisiac. They are alive in me, as well as surrounding me. They provoke and prod, undermining my resistance and enlivening my humanness. They continue to puzzle me. Always intimate.
What is my writing process?
Poetry gave me the confidence, and the community, to consider tackling prose again. I prefer the way my life feels when I’m in the space for poetry though.
Writing poetry is always spontaneous and intuitive. The words just arrive … sometimes like a sneeze… short, succinct and full bodied. I know exactly what I want to say, understand it perfectly and then the words flicker and I lose it. These are the puzzles to unravel.
Some well up from the ground of my being … and release into a chest gripping harmony… old wounds healing.
In some I feel I’m treading water … way over my head. I put my swim fins on and dream through them for meaning.
Some are just romps through my day.
Prose on the other hand demands a method. I’m very disciplined in this regard. I usually start working straight out of sleep and begin writing the first draft, having a general idea. I continue to intuitively wade my way through all my thoughts on the subject. At this point I cannot attend to sequence or order. I arrive at a more cohesive sense of the subject by writing freely.
Then for however long it takes, I search for the rhythm. Now I can jump in at any time to work and I am able to work for long hours at a time. I write on scraps of paper, in various size notebooks but primarily on the screen and I quit when my eyes give out. When I have a reasonable draft, I used to read what I’d written out loud, but now I’ve switched to recording … over and over, listening for a genuine voice, possible repetition, awkward sentencing, lazy language and for sequence. This is generally how I find the ending of the post I’m working on and often times the beginning of the next one.
How does my work differ from other genres?
I haven’t a clue but I know each demands commitment. I’ve witnessed here on Word Press how combining different art forms compliment each other, giving a fuller experience. I’d like to have the momentum in writing to begin exploring a more visual language.
What am I working on at this moment?
I’m involved with an ongoing project attempting to artistically translate the work of a surreal, magic-realism flavored three-year mystical tour through the collective unconscious. In order to clarify my own understanding, I wrote a six-page text. Everyone who has read it, however, unanimously finds my initial text unreadable and incoherent.
So I’m learning to communicate. At this point, I am about half way through the text.
Right now I prefer the immediacy of this virtual community. I’m continually inspired and it makes a difference that I know who I’m talking and sharing with. There’s energy in this that moves me forward and compliments the work, which is still very much in process…and maybe this is what it’s all about.
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Of all the luscious in word writers I have the great good fortune of following, and of being in community with here, I had to consider my leanings toward the storytellers.
Bonnie spins the most curiously mindful, quirky rhythm-ed, uncannily insightful stories….a master Mistress Spider. Maxada Mandala
Stacy … oh Stacy. What it is to be woman.When I see Stacy has posted…I know we are getting down to it. Her poetry is simply food. the language we speak
Mark doesn’t so much as weave his stories, as immerse you in each word of his short fiction. His stories are verbal film noir…. each nuance palpable in black and white. Chris is a quick, spontaneous eyed photographer. Each of her photos are captioned and worlds open up. Together they have begun working out a collaborative comic ….Mark writing and Chris drawing. The Brokedown Pamphlet and Spartan Eye
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Sketch: Self-portrait “Start at the beginning and work towards the end?”
Perfect landing

~
I step lightly between the landing of the animus
The muse who comes lifting honey
from the hives
~
Pollinating words penetrating
through veils
Boundaries permeable by light
still feeling the sinew and bones of intention
smiling around dark corners
unabashed
“””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””
Pregnant with Animus…keep it steady there © J.H. White
They refused
to bury us
in the knotted masks of tall grasses
before setting fire to the cairn of chaff
~
our children
lie dormant
as seeds of light
~
we
as we were
are gone forever
~
now
defying gravity
I am here to witness
love breathing
~
through my own flesh
~
~
I want to thank my fellow traveler, Geo Sans. Even though it is a solitary journey, no one goes alone.
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Nocturnal
Hear me #2
~
scraped rust from my tongue
older than before I was born for nothin
score the initiations of death
my gaming sport
rough and blunt points
for taken the hoes down
I’m not even tired yet
just getting started
gimme gimme
“”””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””
To call out my anger. To give voice to all sides in this massive and long holding violence so I can see touch be whole at least in myself. I’m not asking for some peaceful distancing. Some mental balancing. Somewhere in there lies compassion…somewhere. I will find this flower
© J.H. White
Say it moon
Brain lights
~
Heart upended
sight suspended
shattering
light
~
“”””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””
””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””
Migraine auras. They’d come in sequences of three days, lasting for about twenty minutes each time. Just the auras. Not the headaches. For the most part.
Crossing a bridge, the pungent smell of rosemary, walking away from the house…the triggers were identifiable.
It’s been a few years now since the perpetuating upheaval of estrangement. No more auras. They were a physicality of the moment.
The heart in the picture is new and looks like it comes from a teenage notebook. Most definitely.
I added the edges surrounding the heart, cut from an old sketch book where I’d drawn the auras.
Glued together
I look at this picture
as an old tattoo on my
perfectly elastic body
absorbing the sun in the salt spray.
Aye
I’m a sailor
in the sea of love.








