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Buddha said to the Deer…
“It’s time to poke the Tiger”
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Painting © by Jana White
Instagram @ Jana_H_White
Tag Archives: Jana H White
The Aquifer and the Wheel
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The Aquifer…
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The Wheel…
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“At the still point of the turning world. Neither flesh nor fleshless;
Neither from nor towards; at the still point, there the dance is,
But neither arrest nor movement. And do not call it fixity,
Where past and future are gathered. Neither movement from nor towards,
Neither ascent nor decline. Except for the point, the still point,
There would be no dance, and there is only the dance.
I can only say, there we have been; but I can not say where.
I can only say, how long, for that is to place it in time.”
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Excerpt from BURNT NORTON
{No.1 of “Four Quartets” by T.S. Eliot
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Paintings © Jana White
Instagram @ Jana_h_White
Akimbo
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there are no round corners
my imagination is akimbo
jolts of current spark within context
without setting light
What to do?
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I gather the dexterity needed
and carry it to the scales
only to find
it weighs more than I do
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my skin is transparent
I employ a magnifying glass
angling towards the sun
the beam passes right through me
blazing and unhindered
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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
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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
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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
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awkward and exploding
my imagination
is no longer rooted
in safe ground
I am uncomfortable
I am vulnerable
profusely sweating
in the slipstream
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painting and poem: Jana H. White
osmosis
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thought hovers
is this thought mine?
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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?
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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
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I looked for what was left
at the time
I was empty
much later I understood
this was the right place to start
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it takes awhile
starting from nothing
to un-know everything
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we hover
not knowing
we move through walls
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Acrylic on paper….j. h. white
Lumens
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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
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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
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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
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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)
I dream of being a weed…
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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
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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
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I’m a veteran miner
more comfortable in the dark
where I can keep an eye on things
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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
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There is no letting go. Why would I?
There is nothing of worth to carry…
All I can do is bloom
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drawing and poem …. j.h.white
Slow Infestation
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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.
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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.
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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…
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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.
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PoePoem and drawing: jana h white Drawing: Pastels on black paper
The Poetics of Light 