Welcome to IzWhite.com

Iz White's poetry transforms events, corporate gatherings, and community celebrations, leaving a lasting impact. Rooted in the strength of his heritage and personal experiences, his work resonates with the complexities of life, from resilience and struggle to triumph and passion. Immerse yourself in the evocative world of Iz White and experience the power of poetry that speaks to the human soul.

Isadore “Iz” White is an enrolled tribal member of the Snoqualmie, just outside of Seattle. He grew up homeless in Seattle through the 90s; he has survived poverty in Emerald City where the rich and poor are dichotomies apart; he was a no one who had nothing, completely obsessed with writing poetry on any napkin or notepad he could get his hands on. He disguised his poetry as “rap” so that the other kids would stop making fun of him. His tribe was federally recognized in 1999 and through years of work by appointed leaders, he finally has some financial stability. He grew up in a country that has omitted his very existence as an Indigenous person. But now, Iz has finally had time to completely commit himself to the craft he epitomizes. He has been writing poetry since 1996 on park benches and the back of buses not knowing it was the strength of his ancestors shining through. He started sharing his poetry at open mics in 2021, which lead to paid gigs and a book manuscript. His live readings are full of people asking to buy a book that doesn’t even exist yet. His poetry collection encompasses the human experience; from childhood to manhood; from love to hate; from good to bad; from rich to poor. Iz White is grateful for a craft that allows him to be brought to the very edge of what it is to exist and come back to express it in words; that is poetry.

This poem, born from a Hugo House workshop, explores the theme of patience through the symbolism of tea. Initially daunting, the prompt "honey and tea" evolved into a meditation on life's daily grind, the importance of gratitude, and the calm found in stillness. Through revisions and introspection, the poem weaves imagery of traffic lights and oak trees, ultimately reminding us to embrace patience and find peace amidst chaos.

This evocative poem explores the journey of self-discovery, highlighting themes of resilience, self-worth, and the power of patience. Through vivid imagery and introspective verses, it captures personal struggles, the ebb and flow of life, and the redemption found in moments of calm and empathy. The poem encourages readers to embrace inner peace, recognize humanity's shared experiences, and find strength in our interconnectedness.

Plight of Native Man

This poem is a reflection of the struggles and resilience of my people. It aims to shed light on the historical and ongoing challenges faced by Indigenous communities, not to assign blame, but to foster understanding and awareness. Through these verses, I hope to honor my heritage and inspire a deeper appreciation for the strength and spirit of my ancestors. America tried to exterminate an entire race just as Germany did, yet no one talks about it. Foreign countries have little education Indigenous peoples. America keeps it quiet, because it would tarnish the unrealistic view of the fourth of July.

They make Halloween costumes based on mainstream misrepresentation. There was already a region of people here, yet we were massacred by literal terrorism by immigrants from other continents.  These terrorist’s descendants go out of their way to mock the sacred medicine of my people's culture and act shocked when we're offended. Warriors earn adulations, yet America fosters a culture where these Halloween costumes are readily available. It's akin to Americans getting mad at someone who puts on a uniform but never served, committing stolen valor. Think about someone making fun of dead soldiers who died in war, mocking people killed in 9/11, or someone making fun of the children killed in Sandy Hook.

I don't want to live a life where I make fun of American culture based on the tragedies it's went through, yet America doesn't foster a culture that would return that sentiment. People sugarcoat and glorify Thanksgiving because the true atrocious story behind it is actively erased from the history books. The only way for growth is through accountability. I look forward to a future where we all grow together.

Time

A fellow writer in the greater Seattle area who is also a great photographer inspired this poem. In one of her photos, it’s a picture of waves in dusk. I don’t know why but my heart lies to me and says that it’s dawn. I scramble to my tablet, and this is what I wrote. Reflecting on the struggles and growth from youth to adulthood, this piece explores the impact of societal pressures, personal experiences, and the importance of embracing one's heritage and individuality. It highlights the journey of self-discovery, honoring ancestors, and the power of inner strength to overcome life's challenges. Through poetic expressions, it encourages living authentically and transforming hardships into resilience.

Time, as we perceive it, is but a construct, a perspective influenced by our state of consciousness. In the waking state, we experience the flow of time, yet in transcendental or cosmic consciousness, time dissolves into the eternal now. My journey, like that of my ancestors, exists in this moment, where past, present, and future converge. Through my poetry, I traverse these realms, weaving the timeless wisdom of my heritage with the ever-changing rhythms of urban life. Just as the universe exists in a grand unity, my words echo the interconnectedness of our experiences, transcending the confines of time to explore the essence of our shared humanity.

Where am I?
Doors open at 2:00 PM. I should be on stage around 2:45. The theme is Coming Home, and if I’m being honest, I lost the idea of home around 7 and a half. By the time I was 8 and a half, my family was homeless. I was prey to the world, and whe
Doors open at 2:00 PM. I should be on stage around 2:45. The theme is Coming Home, and if I’m being honest, I lost the idea of home around 7 and a half. By the time I was 8 and a half, my family was homeless. I was prey to the world, and when prey is out in the open, it scurries its current landscape, trying to find a sense of safety. Rather than finding safety, I found addiction. In my young mind, they were the same thing. With my roots chopped, they became legs. Wherever I was, there I stood; scurrying for escape. I went back to my old home, and I’m afraid to say that it did not feel the same. I romanticized the idea of being home. I feel most at home on a Seattle bus or the lightrail; sometimes I show up to events an hour early so that I have a reason to walk the Seattle streets to some corner store, just to feel at home. Is that not funny? Oh, it’s sad. In that case, it is what it is. I’m the kind of person who loves the ‘in between’; it gives me a chance to ponder the universe. The story goes that Einstein could sit hours on end staring out a window. Just him and his theoretical physics; thought experiments. Now I’m not saying I’m a genius, but I find comfort just the same; just me, my neurons, and a shit ton of questions. At 2:45, you get to see what I’ve found with my forehead pressed against the bus glass as my living room window.
Here's to another year of representing the Works In-Progress open mic; a task that I do not take lightly. There’s a place where you can stand on stage and make your argument to the universe. You get to say whatever it is you need to say, out lo
Here's to another year of representing the Works In-Progress open mic; a task that I do not take lightly. There’s a place where you can stand on stage and make your argument to the universe. You get to say whatever it is you need to say, out loud. I do it every month. The things that pierce my repose are laid out, and I spill my heart across the stage. It’s the most uncomfortable I am, and I want to run away after my performance. But if I want to see a world where it’s okay for a man to openly express himself in a meaningful way, then I have to do it myself. I hope that I do right by all the great, courageous writers that grace the stage @hugohouse
I wash my stupid clothes in cycles. The only reason I dress nicely is because I’m insecure. One basket fills with the smell of yesterday; the other is emptied clean of its sins. This shitty laundry mat is a perfect place for me to find myself a
I wash my stupid clothes in cycles. The only reason I dress nicely is because I’m insecure. One basket fills with the smell of yesterday; the other is emptied clean of its sins. This shitty laundry mat is a perfect place for me to find myself alone in a crowded world. I write like a crazy person. I make rules for myself, just so I can break them all. It makes me feel so smart when I outwit myself. Maybe it gives me the illusion of control. No one is here to die for attention. I shrink; I shrivel until I am part of the wall. This world is too cool for me. Everyone has a script. They always know what to fucking say. They make jokes like they’re allergic to awkward silence. Embarrassment squirms us, inside out. Quick, act cool! Or else worms will break through the soil of our skin and dance like octopuses. ‘Octopuses’ dances off my tongue like a dirty word. Why can’t we let the moment break? Is that where the universe is strung together with dental floss? Does reality only exist when we’re comfortable? I exist no more. I am the sound of the TV in the waiting area. The dingy washers twerk drunkenly. The loudest ones get love from the repair man. Life goes on, themes resung. I am liberated from assholes who take over conversations. I am not dependent on your inside jokes sacrificed over uneasy stillness. I want this silence to deafen me. I want it to disintegrate in all the static that shreds me to just the scent of my former self. I want uncool people to butcher jokes. I want the underdog to win. I want the next person that comes through that door to be my Susan Boyle. Come in slightly unkempt and allow me to see your beauty. Cough with a little bit of phlegm, right before you lick your thumb to count your dollar bills. That change machine’s been a bad girl. It needs to be choked and slapped when it only gives you three quarters. Perhaps I’ll lie and say someone punched me in the gut at the laundry mat, and I wanted more. Miracles happen. Sometimes, it’s me. Okay, most of the time, it’s me. I have to create pillowy nebulas for my dreams to sleep. Me and my dreams have to go at it like two animals frothing with biology. And then I have to clean my sheets the next day
Where am I?
Doors open at 2:00 PM. I should be on stage around 2:45. The theme is Coming Home, and if I’m being honest, I lost the idea of home around 7 and a half. By the time I was 8 and a half, my family was homeless. I was prey to the world, and whe Here's to another year of representing the Works In-Progress open mic; a task that I do not take lightly. There’s a place where you can stand on stage and make your argument to the universe. You get to say whatever it is you need to say, out lo I wash my stupid clothes in cycles. The only reason I dress nicely is because I’m insecure. One basket fills with the smell of yesterday; the other is emptied clean of its sins. This shitty laundry mat is a perfect place for me to find myself a