Taming This Tyke's Voice Since 2007

Home Sick In Autumn


What is there left to write,

When my sense of home has faded.

Fallen souvenirs pirouette in the air ~

Leaves dancing downwards ~ like specter.

The ink must wait, and rest til winter is over

(My spirit retires to quiescent under the covers)

Things freeze like the trees, even the lake dozes.


As wakeful hours become less and less,

Mind loses its bluntness,

The page speechless.

Distance drained my veins bloodless

Even the pulse of my pen ceases.


I’m losing grip of the eidolon of home, 

It’s warmth I no longer recall.

Like the trees losing their leaves to autumn,

The hands of memories that used to lift me,

For a time, fail to save my spirit to fall.


I let the cruel wanton winds to take me;

I trust the higher will would be kind.

I write my thoughts in the palms of the season,

I trust them to come back in time.


When my sense of home fills me up again;

When revenant of home,

Like eidolon,


Jeques, 2009. From his “A Traveler’s Soliloquies” poetry collection.


2 responses

  1. jeques,

    the strength of this poem is in its quiet reverie of anything that is associated with the autumn. i for one, love this subject of discourse on autumn. the solitude there is, unplugged from the helter skelter of sizing up with the world. such a profound poem and i thank you for being brave to address these freezing points in life, that people cringes to accept.

    i particularly love the poetic descriptions of that sadness, that homesickness eveident in these lines;

    Fallen souvenirs pirouette in the air ~

    Leaves dancing downwards ~ like specter.

    The ink must wait, and rest til winter is over

    i remember that the painting you have already showcased in here that i like best, has something to do with the falling leaves. i have just forgotten its title, sorry. the strong emotion of the “ink must wait”, captures the soul of this poem. as restless as this moment of keeping grips with our inner strength to forge on. keep on moving, amidst the numbing turmoil of discontent. and i must say, poetry keeps our sanity. it connects us to the totality of things, that perhaps, make us human beings.

    beautiful poem indeed.

    best of times,

    PM00000040000004228 10, 2007 at 12:00 pm02

  2. Marvin,

    The title of the painting you mentioned is “Solitude” with autumn leaves pirouetting in the air falling which I used in this poem to illustrate how I’m slowly losing the memories from home with the passing of time. It’s been 2 years since my last home-coming and when I was writing this poem, it was scarry for me to realize that I have used up the souvinirs of memories I packed with my luggage 2 years ago and it was already hard for me to write something, apparently losing my sense of home in my words.

    I have always kept that certain sense of home in my writings and in my paintings. I promised myself that wherever life would take me, I will make sure I would never forget where I am rooted and they would always be reflected in my works. So it was just so scarry to find my imaginary luggage empty that day and was expressed in this poem: The fear of not writing anything, and the fear of losing my sense of home in my works completely.

    Because who could write about the homes we came from better, our origin, where we are rooted but us. My greatest fear more than death is losing my memories completely and be forgotten.

    I wish you well.

    ~ Jeques

    PM000000110000005928 10, 2007 at 12:00 pm02

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