The future ain't what it used to be.

Yogi Berra
MAY 20, 2012 7:34AM

Variations on a Theme

Rate: 37 Flag

 

NOTE: I have site  for viewing some of my graphics. It's at:

http://www.saunalahti.fi/msiivola/jan/index.html

  Final

 

THESE THINGS VARY

 

Breathing in, breathing out

Can be a sigh, a sneeze

A shout.

These things vary

By degrees

And breath

Persists until death.

These things vary

Into style.

Sometimes instantly

Or

After a while

A furtive smile

Can creep into a grin

Explode a laugh.

But half

The grace

That ties the lace

With love and life

And how we race

From birth to death

Paced by our breath

In every case

Involves play

With atmosphere.

That much is clear.

These things vary.

 

 

DESTINATION

 

There is cold

In the country of the old.

Heat of life,

Heat of love,

Heat of curiosity

Has drained away.

From its terrain,

Stony as a terminal moraine,

Sprouts pain,

Sprouts anxiety,

Sprouts isolation.

Desolation fills the atmosphere.

It blurs perception,

It blurs tactility,

It blurs memory.

Lonely, confused and feeble,

Old creatures creep in insecurity,

Stumbling on the roots and vines

Of bodily infirmity,

Await with temerity,

Await with resignation

The final mating

With the monolithic dominator

Whose acid flames

Burn away the self,

Dissolve and dissipate the substance,

Reduce to bland simplicity

The intricate design

Of individuality.

 

 

THE MAJESTY OF DEATH

 

The majesty of death

Cannot reign without love.

All power draws its strings

From the intimates of common things

That cross and tie our lives

From day to day, one to another;

The touch, the look, the joy

Of living in a world to share

In happiness and misery.

Time blooms with wondrous insights

That intensify when held in hands

Together.

To feel and know each other=s universe

Weaves a web of mutuality that

When ripped by death

Leaves threads

Swinging in a midnight wind.

 

 

FORMATION

 

The patterns of the world wash in

Across the sands of mind

And ripple through the thoughts which drift

And scatter unaligned

'Til gently rocking back and forth

Their edges catch and bind.

 

They bind and mat in patterns that

Echo those outside

To map the weavings of the world

That glisten, slip and slide

And change in forms extremely strange

Which shatter and collide.

 

We construct ourselves upon

These waves of sight and sound

Collecting from these drifting thoughts

An entity that's bound

To shifting inside structures

And whatever runs aground.

 

 

FRAYED AT THE END

 

Along the way

One collects.

Sparsely,

If one has the wit to realize

The trip may be long

And pockets meanly shallow.

 

Youth and simple fascination

And an innate sense of order

Folds acquisitions into sense

Which fit most sensibly to stores.

But time overwhelms

Most economic husbandries

With plenitude.

 

Memories ferment and melt

White clouds to lift me up

And off to nothingness.

To Pollock patterns.

Order and disorder meld.

Stars and tissue paper,

Unstrung pearls and graveled skins

Of tangerines long consumed.

Furniture no longer squats

In set configurations.

Curtains sag. Corners soften,

Faired by dust and crumbs

Into spider playgrounds

Where choruses of flies ensnared

Hum in symphony.

 

Dying must,

I belatedly perceive,

Be approached with caution.

Powers fade and disappear

In minute secret phases,

Like coins percolating

Through a pocket hole.

 

Distant objects blur.

The spines of books

No longer shout

What lies within.

Their colors smear

As by a moistened thumb

Into colored cacophones.

Sounds struggle through

A buzz and whistle static.

Anesthetic numbness

Gloves my fingertips.

A ghostly dental shot

Has thickened up my mouth and tongue.

Soon I must be enwrapped

In white sterility

Within a chrome corral

Where hungry tubes

Will suck my openings

And pump intrusive stews

Bestowing to my life

A marginal extension.

 

Steaming from my center,

Like a lump of melting CO two,

Cold fear billows out

White clouds to lift me up

And off to nothingness.

 

 

BETWEEN THE FIRST AND FINAL SCREAM

 

Out of time into space

We enter this peculiar place

Full of interaction, contradiction,

Strange attraction, ‘til eviction

Snaps us back from where we came

Straight into the nothing game.

 

All our parts strictly composed,

We are fingered, nicely toed

Toothed and mouthed and eyed and nosed,

Armed and handed as commanded

By our genes when we landed.

 

What we do with all those parts

Depends upon where we starts

To place the horse before the carts

With our brains or our hearts.

 

Life inbetween is this or that.

Staying thin, getting fat,

Receiving what one expects

In economics or in sex,

Not to deny fascination

With wealth or health or procreation

With, perhaps, some contemplation

Of why to be even concerned

How time is lit, or nicely burned.

 

What life should be,

Perhaps, is fun

In thunderstorm or in sun,

Since time not spent

With good intent

Is wasted time to relent.

So, upright or supine in bed

Life’s not given, merely lent

And in the end, we’re all dead.

 

 

EPITAPH

 

Here I lie,

All my bones

And my head.

Under these stones,

Hopefully,

Dead.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Comments

Type your comment below:
Hopefully dead. Indeed. My favorite of these poems is the penultimate. It has all, the gamut, and the touches of droll keep it leavened. I'm a complete naif when it comes to graphic art, but your image here is intriguing. I trust you have published your stuff, or intend to.
These are breathtaking, Jan. r.
Dust to dust.
Between screams......

From Robert Frost:
"Forgive, O Lord, my little jokes on Thee, and I'll forgive Thy great big joke on me." (heard him speak when I was in college)

Jan, I need at least an hour to go back and read all of your post and visit your site. Thank you for this assignment. Am in awe of both verse and vision.
I plan to get in my boat and sail for the center of the ocean, for as long as it takes me. There will be no rescue attempt, no such folly, nor floating wreckage for the human salvager. - W.Gentieu

.......................................................................

"All power draws its strings
From the intimates of common things" - (Jan Sand)

Saludos Maestro!

.......................................................................

NB - FRAYED AT THE END was wonderful. A painted poem.
Jan I don’t want to live to be old but if I can do it with your artistic ability's then I would consider it my obligation to the human race.
Very nice my friend. My best to you as always.....older/exasperated
"Old creatures creep in insecurity,

Stumbling on the roots and vines

Of bodily infirmity,"
Man, I can sure relate to that. Your poems are beautiful and an inspiration to we of a certain age. R
I thank you for the thoughts brought to me by your literary lesson. Duke
...rated for your art.
A great read Jan. You made my morning complete.
I am going to look at the graphics link as well.
Jan,
I have been at your gallery,andas always ,I am humbled by your art.
There is so much beauty in all of them whether in. text or in paintings.If I had to choose one,the choice would not be easy.
I must admit that I have a few favorites.
Where you you keep your art work?
Are you selling any of this?
Sorry for the asking.
I'll be back to give them a good read when the chores are done. Lovely work.
I love your work Jan. Had no idea you were so talented with the brush. I especially like the ones like Dreams and Nightmares, Fire Gazing With Cat, Jonah, Night Rider, etc. I don't know what that's "officially" called, but I love the art. My favorites are Targeted Assassination and Final Crowd.

Amazing work Jan. Thanks for sharing.
I am truly smitten by your words and your art, and thank you for sharing them so kindly with us here. All the poems here speak out to me, but "Frayed at the End" stands out more somehow. Sincerely.

R♥
As we grow so our hearts and minds turn to what little certainty we might know. The past we can remember, and the future we might see with only one certain end point... then there are moments when we are here and now and comforted with the simplicity that we're doing the best we can with what we have. That and a good cup of coffee makes life worthwhile. Thank you for your post Jan, and for sending us to your wonderful images.
Great Stuff, Jan! I know you'd never expect to hear this from me, but there was too much poetry to easily digest. I loved the used of short phrase related lines and the combination of words. I thought the imagery was awesome, from a verbal standpoint.

I didn't check out all your artwork, just the image on this page. Hauntingly primitive-like in imagery and very earth spiritus.

--R--
pretty cool stuff....as for 'frayed'...always figured it was the final joke we werent given an "OFF" switch...
In conclusion a collection, a profusion, a piece of self to leave behind.
To "threads swinging in a midnight wind..."
....a toast to your body of work in this post, Jan.
I'm awed.
R
Jan,magical work..full of mystery and sensibility..Your words "Hoρefully dead' is a ρrayer and I can indeed feel you...Rated for excellence..Best regards!!!
[r] genius! ART AND POETRY.

(my fellow Aquarian I see)

your poetry resonates, both style and sensibility (reminds me of the profound and down to earth scope of Emily Dickenson's and I take her very seriously and heart-warmingly)!

I am travelling and don't have time and opportunity to really embrace these beyond a quick skim. Frayed at the End alone is worth dedicated, delicious contemplation!

THANK YOU!!! best, libby
hand-holding, heartbreakingly wonderful ~
I admire your works Mr Sand and I cannot think of the words worthy to express myself. I will mark this page and return again and again, then visit your link. Respectfully thank you.
We have spoken of beauty, Jan, and for me this is an experience of it.
The wispy smoke inhaled & exhaled in the picture, explained in the words:
“These things vary
By degrees
And breath
Persists until death.’
………………………
Death you seem ambivalent about.
“The majesty of death
Cannot reign without love.”

Webs of mutuality gone.
But;
“Life’s not given, merely lent” and
“White clouds to lift me up
And off to nothingness. “ and


these lines, which especially resonated:


The final mating
With the monolithic dominator
Whose acid flames
Burn away the self,
Dissolve and dissipate the substance,
Reduce to bland simplicity
The intricate design
Of individuality.”

………………………

There is no substance, only smoke, and this is your epistemology too;

“The patterns of the world wash in
Across the sands of mind
And ripple through the thoughts which drift…
(binding in)

patterns that
Echo those outside
To map the weavings of the world…”

…………………………..

Personally, it is fascinating to hear a man twice my age sum it up:

“An entity that's bound
To shifting inside structures
And whatever runs aground.”
………………………………….

Also personally, I have felt like an old man and dealt with old folks for so long that I forget that I am rather young…
Youth to me is frivolous & far too labile for a staid still soul such as mine.


Always” contemplation
Of why to be even concerned
How time is lit, or nicely burned.”
Why why..
And yep here is pretty much my current conclusion:

“What life should be,
Perhaps, is fun
In thunderstorm or in sun,
Since time not spent
With good intent
Is wasted time to relent.”
those are some excellent poems, jan sand, and it's a nice composition of differing styles and sentiments though the main subject runs through them all. these lines -

"All power draws its strings
From the intimates of common things
That cross and tie our lives ..."

- vibrated in my mind and do again, as i read them, leaving them here, and the rest of that Majesty piece. each of us internalizes words and lines according to our own experience. i was drawn to this post and have read it several times. thank you for this.
Six times I rate you Jan, but only once am I allowed. Each poem is wonderful.
My god, Jan, these are powerful poems. Harrowing to make one's way through them and deal with the stark truths addressed but well worth the trip.

I had no idea that you do graphics.
This is to thank everybody who looked in in case I missed someone. We are each, after all, a momentary conflagration of fireflies that flash in joyous concert in defiance of the dark and then vanish into the night.
Viewing your gallery...

...once, on Padraig's blog, you mentioned one of your best friends, a bird. I wondered if any of those slides was a portrait of him/her.

So many of the images stay in my mind, the titling and conceptualization... treatment of the themes.

The images lead to poems, multiplicities beyond their solitude. And the poems to paint and ink, folded wet like leaves of a book, staining both pages in a verso edition.

Saludos~
In my experience, those who understand death, who know it most intimately, go out of their way to deny it. They give it nothing, no part of themselves, as Sartre said. It's one of the clearest examples of the rule of opposition. But whatever.
rate
Oh, the painting is just so beautiful, Jan...I can see her breathing in, breathing out, and The grace/That ties the lace/With love and life...

And your gallery is really wonderful...thank you for your poetry and art!
Read these again this morning. I no longer have a favorite. I'm guessing you wrote these over time.
Changed accounts so I could rate this again. I've just returned from your gallery. Your talent astonishes me. Of all your amazing works there, my sentimental favorite is "Bird and Sun" because it reminds me so much of Sharon "Dirndl Skirt" Watts's avatar drawing: Dirndl Skirt

A collection of your work - graphic and writing - would make a marvelous coffee table book, one that would not just sit on the table, but be picked up and enjoyed. I would put "Bird and Sun" on the cover, but that's just me.
You will permit me to say how much I enjoy your words and your paintings, Mr. Sand? I should think there are certain people - connoisseurs, if you will, who would be happy to pay a sizable sum for originals of your paintings and, let us say, a collection of your poetry, a signed collection, no doubt.
You have set such a wonderful tone here that to not snap to and make the most of this gift, this place in time is to be something less than a player. Currently I am not the player I thought I was. I am currently having to move because of economic reasons, and it is something that takes time and patience because I have collected oh so much stuff and everything seems to have a memory attached to it.
Deep thoughts expressed as stellar poetry.
Sometime ago I posted this:

---------
the destination
 ---------

 

the heaven is pouring rain
on the dying fires of the hell
it is cold to wait
on the windy gates of the death


I liked most the last one:

Here I lie,
All my bones
And my head.
Under these stones,
Hopefully,
Dead.

Why 'hopefully' ?
Somehow it sounds funny.
Jan,I had to come here again,and as you see,I am not the only one.Matt has made a comment which I have suggested to you also more than once.Your art work should be published.
Each word which you write down here is worth publishing.
Not only that.I would like to have a google search machine that collects all your comments and puts them safely into my private drawer along with footnotes.
In a word "WoW".

"Press send please FRed(tm) and lick the button Boy"
Would that I could speak so. Wonderful. Thank you.
Damn, these are good!

I'd have rated them singly. I'm not going to pick out favorite phrases because there are too many.

Really, my compliments.
Great work, Jan. R
CONGRATULATIONS! THIS POST IS A READERS' PICK (RP)
Please let people know if you publish a book. These are stunning. I want to go back to them.
For a very important clear analysis of why and how Obama is destroying the democracy of the USA and the long history of its occurrence see http://www.counterpunch.org/2013/02/01/how-to-sell-hard-choices/

Jan Sand
FEBRUARY 02, 2013 12:16 AM
Pre-epitaph:

Your visual talent
And your writing
Are your wealth.
May your richness
And abundance
Extend to good health.
Well, I am sort of astounded at all this appreciation. I have never been published, never sold any of my artwork and cannot even afford to have my work framed if I ever am offered an exhibition. I have barely enough money to live on and these comments make me wonder if I should try to sell some stuff. Thanks.
Can't get that cut and paste link to work...keeps coming up access forbidden. But if the work there is as terrific as the one shown here...you are a master.


I...never sold any of my artwork.

That could have been written by Vincent Van Gogh. He never sold a single painting during his lifetime.


In 2007, Vincent's painting of Dr.Gachet sold for $82.5 million.

Ya never know!