Taming This Tyke's Voice Since 2007

About me

My Genesis

~

I delight watching things from their outset,

I am soothe to see the genesis of things.

They remind me of the child, the curious eyes

Ever sparkling within.

 

I see beauty in simpleness of anything even at their lowly outset,

For they possess the genuine truth of precious purity.

They remind me of my beginnings

Like the water glorybinds(kangkong) growing wild in the marshes,

They bring back memories of the backyards

Of some houses I lived as a child.

Water glorybind, river spinach,swamp cabbage, whatever name you call it, for me its "Tangkong" Pencil, pen and ink on paper by Jeques B. Jamora, 2010

In some quiet afternoons during my untamed moments,

I would sit motionless in a corner facing the swamp in our backyard

Listening to the soothing sounds, the slightest of movements

In the still water at one o’clock

When the world in my young mind

Takes a nap with my mother on her siesta.

I would sneak out of the house through the backdoor

To celebrate the joy of my earliest  found solitude

In the company of nature ~

 

Befriending the dragonflies hovering over my head,

The birds nestling in the reeds,

The snails petiently taking thier journeys from one rock to the next,

While my mind quietly travels to the unknown future

Interrupted by occasional sightings of the gourami

That stir the still water creating tiny ripples on the surface.

 

But the highlight of the afternoon is the rare sighting of the mudfish(dalag)

Making that splash and swashing sound and wild movements

In the dense growth of the water glorybinds as it swims back to the bushes of reeds,

Where the water of the marshes is knee deep and the herons(tagak) nest.

That magical moment of brief beautiful chaos tickles purest joy of childhood madness.

 

Cherished memories from my genesis ~

My earliest form of entertainment: my humble version of television,

Or a theatre; watching a movie or a concert ~ my idea of a grand show

Happening in our backyard in an atypic stage, in a silverscreen of water glorybinds

Where the dragonflies, the frogs, the birds, the gourami, the snails, the herons, the mudfish

Are the stars, and I, their sole audience.

 

The show ends with the voice of my mother calling my name at four o’clock.

That’s when the curtains drop,

The world wakes up,

As I walk back home to the door of my genesis.

"The Dragonfly and I"

 

 —

Jeques, 2010. From his “Traveler’s Soliloquies poetry collection.

 

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She Raised The Bar[too high]

I came home to celebrate Valentines with her. I have been thinking lately and some thoughts are worrying me being unattached too long, single since birth and loveless in my 30’s. A question frequents my thoughts recently. I once was asked this question by an old lady and I used to I find it really funny.

“What’s wrong with you?” 

But that was 3 years ago, and it’s only lately that the question really sunk in, “Is there really something wrong with me?”

So here I am, home to find out. And the way to get the accurate answer is to go back to the real roots deeply rooted to the love of my mother and here gathered some initial findings.  I maybe single, unattached and worried but one thing is sure, I am not really loveless and never been for I am loved by my family, I am especially loved by my mother. Maybe I just really have high standards set for love, and loving. And it’s my mother who raised the bar too high, I wonder if there would ever be someone who could hurdle it.

My mother and I in the hotel for our valentines dinner date

my mother and I arriving in the hotel for our valentines date

 

my mother

my mother

 

pampering moments at the hotel saloon

 

relaxing in the hotel spa

 

my mother preparing for our valentines dinner

 

valentines buffet

 

dinner date with her

dinner date with her

 

dinner time

 

she raised the bar

 

me, 30's and single


Morning Panes(tanka/painting series)

  “Morning Panes”(Tanka and painting) series #1 of 3
   
Dreams sojourn ~
 Whimsy reflections
 On morning panes ~
 
Coquetting the mind
Crooning dormant soul.
 
"morning panes" #1 oil on canvas 30x40, by Jeques B. Jamora “morning panes” #1 oil on canvas 30×40, by Jeques B. Jamora

 

"morning panes" series #1 to 3 “morning panes” series #1 to 3
“Morning Panes” (Tanka and Painting) series #2 of 3 
  
Dormant soul
Hatching, awaiting
Dawn’s misty kiss ~
 
Artist awakens
Broods nestle on trees.
 
"morning panes" #2 oil on canvas 30x40, by Jeques B. Jamora, 2009 “morning panes” #2 oil on canvas 30×40, by Jeques B. Jamora, 2009

 

 
morning panes
 
“Morning Panes” (Tanka and Painting) series #3 of 3
 
  
Courage ingrained
Inside broken soul’s
Callus chest ~
  
Anticipating sunrise
Awaiting to exhale.
"morning panes" #3 oil on canvas 38x48, by Jeques B. Jamora “morning panes” #3 oil on canvas 38×48, by Jeques B. Jamora
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I have paintings conceived from poems.
 
The images of these paintings initially presented themselves to me in words. Morning Panes, a painting series of 3(at least for now, there is more to it) is one of them. It first came to me in a poem I composed in 2003. The poem visited me in a peculiar dream of a dream within a dream. I believe many of us had experienced that, dreaming in our dream, waking up still asleep. Or is it only me?
 
That dream is a tiny drop of inspiration that created ripples of poetry series. I used to write a lot, I had the freedom of time back home and I can afford to really sit down and study my thougths and dreams in my morning pages. In 2003 I wrote the poem, Images Of You. . . 

 
In my dream
I watch you in your sleep.
My heart feels glad,
My heart leaps.
  
Images of you haunt me ~
  
From the time I wake,
‘Til my sleep.

 

That dream was so vivid I immediately wrote a poem when I awake. The imagery from the dream and the words in the poem lingered in my thoughts which I first expressed visually in a drawing, My Morning Pane, Februay, 2005. It is a self-sketch of myself on bed in my room back home in the Philippines which is the original setting of the dream, the poem, the painting.
"my morning panes" pencil on paper by Jeques, 2005 
“my morning panes” pencil on paper by Jeques, 2005
 
In 2006, I wrote another poem from the same inspiration, Evanescent Romance, this poem fits well in series #2 of the painting. Note the change of the window from the previous, it represents the many rooms we sleep and the multitude of window panes we wake up with in our lifetime yet dreaming the same dreams. Here’s the poem: 
 

We are joined by our hearts’ seeking radars.
 Our souls converge at midnight’s deep blue skies.
 We talk, our words are the infinite stars.
 We feel so intimate with our closed eyes.
 Our unions are chronicled by my pen.
 The winds’ soft whistles signal your presence.
 Your image flickers through my window pane ~
 Silhouette of my dream-lover’s essence.
 In my mind I touch the face of heaven,
 When you croon to me lovesongs of silence.
   Bliss is what my thoughts of you has given.
 You illumined my lonely existence. 
Romance confined in shadows of the night. 
 ‘Tis evanescent with the morning light.

 

These are some of the few poems I wrote that ended up on canvas, in visual form, in paintings.
 
But there are also inspirations that presented themselves to me first in visual arts. They become drawings, or sketches, or paintings instantly. In these instances, my brushstrokes are my words to create imageries that frequent my thoughts.
  
To complete the circle of poems becoming paintings and paintings becoming poems, I used the painting series, “Morning Panes” as subject and inspiration to my poems for this week’s workshop on the ancient poetry form: the Tanka. It dates back to the 7th century. A poem of five lines of 5/7/5/7/7 syllable count respectively. I strictly followed this rules in the previous Tanka’s I composed but in the workshop I attend, I learned the freedom from the Tanka minimalists, and the modern american tanka which is less restricting as to the syllable count and rather focusing on the importance of expressing an emotion or deep thought in a concise manner in the five lines which is the true beauty of writing a Tanka. Shorter syllable count in each line when achieved in 19-24 or even shorter in 15 counts at the very least instead of 31 is preferred in the modern tanka.
  
Using the Tanka structure, I took out pictures of my paintings and from the deepest recesses of my core extract words that would best express the brushstrokes. Series #3 of the painting fully express my sentiments as a dormant artist awaiting to exhale, an egg hatching, a seed awaiting for springtime, a child awaiting to be born.
And when I come to think of it, this circle of paintings becoming poems, and the poems’ metamorphosis becoming paintings, I come to realize that there’s really no single strand or line that separates them. When I paint, the brushstrokes are my words. When I write, the words are my brushstrokes to create imageries. Sketches and drawings are my scribbles, my drafts.
  
It is my commitment to my craft to achieve such seamless fusion of my paintings and poetry for both are conceived and born from my heart.
 
  
 *For more of my paintings, please click image to navigate to my art portfolio >>> 
 
 waif

  


Le coeur attend

If I strip off this mind and show you my thoughts, would you like what you will see?
If I open my heart to your view, would you like the pictures that you will see inside?
If I bare my soul naked to your eyes, would you ever learn to love me?
I clad myself with things that I thought you would like me wearing, but went home not recognizing my own reflection in the mirror, so I stripped myself off from the things that the world wanted me to be and view myself as I am.
I befriend my thoughts and got familiar with the terrains of my uncharted mind building my own empire in solitude.
I listen to the songs of my heart and memorized its lyrics as I study paeans of love that this heart dreams to sing for you.
I come to terms with myself, got to know the naked me, caressed the skin of my soul, accepted my flaws and learned to care for the lovely soul inside this body.
051609 012

"Le coeur attend" oil on canvas, 24x30 by Jeques B. Jamora, 2009

 ‘Tis when I fully understood the colors and the shapes and molds, and the forms, and the feel, and everything about my soul that I trully begun to learn to dress up. ‘Tis when I learned to listen to my heart’s songs that I was able to write his poetry. ‘Tis when I completely viewed my soul with all my senses that I was able to limn the images of the empire I inhabit in my mind reflected in the canvas like vignettes from the corners of my imagination.

 

Notice me.

For once,

Just be with me.

See my heart and soul

And let time

Stand still ~

 

Look at me.

Show me the spark

behind those eyes

That you would not

Reveal.

 

Talk to me.

Translate your silence

To words

So I would fathom

The tenderness

In your glances.

 

Write to me.

Send me letters

Of your heart

So you would fill

My empty page,

This void

In my chamber

That patiently

Awaits.

 

Visit me.

Anytime of day

While I’m awake

Or even in my dreams

In my hours

Of sleep.

 

Touch me.

Run your finger tips

On my longing cheeks;

Reach out

For my hands

Awaiting

For your reassuring

Grip.

 

Show me.

What’s behind

Those elusive eyes

So afraid

To stay still

Always looking away

From my direction.

 

Whisper to me.

I want to listen

To your heart

And hear

The language

Of your soul.

Let it speak.

 

Just for a brief moment,

Please look into my eyes,

Let time stand still ~

And be

With me.

(“Notice Me,” from the poetry collection of Jeques B. Jamora, 2008)

How do you like me wearing the fabrics of my soul and not the clothes that the world imposed on me to wear when I was younger?

If I tell you what’s inside this mind, would you like what you will hear?

If I tell you you’re part of the dots and lines I create, that you’re in my every brushstroke, each word, each line, in every piece of me would you even care to notice and listen?

If I tell you I weave my story around you, would you be interested to hear that story or buy the volumes of book I write in my mind about us?

 

Don’t be excited with what you now see,

Don’t love me for what I have so far shown.

Be excited with what else I could do ~

Love me for what more I can show you.

 

If I tell you that my thoughts of you reside with me in an empire, would you decide to live there ~

 

And if I tell you I build us home in my heart,

 

 

Would you come home with me?

 

 

 

~Jeques

.

.


Ingrained

memories-from-home-022

"Childhood" oil on canvas, 24x30 by : Jeques B. Jamora, 2009

“Childhood” oil on canvas, 24×30 by :  Jeques B. Jamora, 2009

 

Art museums and galleries are the places I often visit, and the Art Institute of Chicago is my favorite. It is like the secluded dusty paths I used to trod when I was a child pulling my carts to endless directions in circles that my young mind then imagined.

I am naturally solitary.

There are things that I grew up doing alone, and they are what I really love to do. Against all odds, I silently fought for these things and from where I stand now, I look back to claim my rewards from my little triumphs.

In one of my quiet strolls in the museum communing with the spirits of the artists gone and living, I observed young students in a group sketch session. I was deeply moved, I felt envious and sad. Some thoughts dawned in me: I always do my arts alone, closed doors, dettached from the world. My father was highly critical of my early works, he is the first battle I fought to shield my natural gift from the many forces that discouraged me and my early pursuits in finding my voice as an artist and my soul in my works. 

Watching this young students brought me back to my sketching sessions as a kid. Any empty paper and writing tools are my art materials then – give me anything I could sketch on and I could survive long hours alone away from people. I envy these kids doing there arts in the company of their classmates, enjoying art moments with their friends. When they are my age years from now, and they would stroll through this quiet room, these paintings in the wall would remind them of this moment, but more than that, the walls would echo their whispered giggles that would bring back happy memories. 

As they weave their memories unaware, I went back to my own. I visited my solitary self struggling to find meaning in what seemed to be senseless dots and lines I put together to create images that was so insignificant then. Little did I know that those dots and lines would bring me to this point, to look back and find the trails I left to guide me back to how and where my journey started.

I started sketching when I was about 3 years old before I learned how to write, when my grip was strong enough to control a pencil or a pen. The moment I first held a pencil, I knew it in my heart that this is something that I would love to do for a lifetime. And that is how my romance with the arts started, like a-love-at-first-grip kind of thing. I remember my mother was my first teacher and our first subject were flowers. She stopped teaching me when my flower sketches look nicer than the ones she taught me. I outgrew the art lessons my mother gave me quick. And then she became my first admirer, my first fan, my first follower and collector of my works. My first art exhibit was in her store as she show my drawings in the pages of her record notebook to friends. That was my version of an art institute.

flowers #1 -0182

“flowers” #1 pen and pencil on paper by : Jeques B. Jamora, 2009

But there was a negative energy, too, my first critic: my father. He thought my works were insignificant and told me to do other things. I think the hardest thing he did was when he forced me to use my right hand ~ I was born left handed ~ and at 16, when I was so sure of my decission to take up fine arts, he put me to a nursing school.

I was caught in the middle trying to keep my balance early on: between my encouraging, nourishing, consenting mother and my highly critical, discouraging, tormenting father.

I never had formal education in the arts. The gift is ingrained, I was born with the passion, not even my father was able to control from florishing. So in my room, close doors, alone, I had my sketching session as a kid. It was lonely. There was only one person I would seek every time I finish a piece: my mother. Her sincere appreciation of my works nourished me to keep going. But I have to admit all these years, I seek for the approval of my father which he never gave. After my father died in 2008, I thought I’m free now. I always was!

“The mind and the heart and the soul, like the birds, are meant to soar, set it free. Allow your spirit to fly!”

I walk fast many more group of young kids in drawing sessions while I brouse through the paintings on the walls that flood me with mulititude of thoughts from the past, present and future. Nothing has changed in me much, I still am the kid and art is still a solitary life for me and perhaps I would spend it that way for the rest of my life. I have come to terms with myself and solitude has become a bliss.

I, too, am still that kid who would seek my mother’s appreciation everytime I finish an art piece to get her nod and nourishing words of encouragement for me to go on. Only now I seek that appreciation from people who would chance upon my works, like my mother’s friend in the store she would show my drawings of flowers as a kid.

I still am that kid who fear the criticism of my father that made me rip many pages of my sketches, and toss away many works unfinished. Deep in my heart, I have to admit I still seek for his approval that he was so selfish to give.

I see my father’s image in people who thought my works are insignificant, I find courage in people who tell me otherwise. I still am struggling to find that balance from this opposing forces.

Deep inside this heart, ingrained, is a gift that I’m entrusted to nurture alone, close doors, away from people. I remain that waif inside my room as a child connecting senseless dots and lines to create images hoping that people would find them significant, so I could finally find my grown up version of an art institute, my home, your heart.

and like a desolate soul a lonely waif

I await for you to find me.

May your travels not take you long,

Come fast and love me ~

memories-from-home-001

“Waif” oil on canvas 18×18 by : Jeques B. Jamora


200 Picks From My Fecund Heart

Jeques’s  Web Nook, the corner that opens my heart to the public for reading and viewing is 1 year and a half today. And to celebrate this landmark to my writing life is my 200th post.

I lost count of the number of poetry I posted but it’s over 200.

My favorite remains to be the sonnet poem I wrote: A Walk Around The Oval

 

Once more I walk the oval track today,
And ponder yet again, “What is my role?”
Am I just making circles every day
In life’s arena, like an errant soul?
I walk around the never ending trail:
A fallen leaf caught in a swirling stream;
Or like an army, ever locked in drill.
I am engrossed and walk in my own dream.
Some strangers share my lane but not my muse.
You’re far, and yet, our thoughts are much the same;
I’m not alone then in the road I choose;
Beyond the oval someone shares my lane.

                    In you my lonesome soul finds home to stay,
                    For in my heart you’re near, you’re here with me.

 

This poem tells so much of myself, the loner that I am, the waif who is at peace with his solitude, forever contemplating his role in this life, ever hopeful finding that one person to share his thoughts, his soul, the other half of his tenacious heart.

I can not be in this life for no reason, there must be something in each moment that I have to take in as I breath, and there must something in me that I could offer as I exhale my soul in anything that I do. Perhaps  my poetry, my arts, my thoughts, my memories, the landscape of my mind, the language of my heart, the sweetest juice of my soul is my cotribution that I willingly offer, hoping that somebody would take and breath them into their hearts.

It’s been 200 posts of fresh picks from my fecund heart in many different forms. It is amazing how my web nook became not only a corner for me to display my works, but it had also become my working table to untangle my thoughts, to disect my heart, to trace the map of the alianated corners of my mind, to lay my soul on that table and to try to understand for myself the language that it wanted to speak.

I have told you about the seasons and how they affect me, the country where I came and I call home, about my family, about my dreams.

I shared with you my journeys, my childhood, why I write, the books I read, my artworks, photographs, some produce of my expirements with the lenses.

I laid open my heart writing about love, of fantasied romance, of heartbreaks, of failures and defeats and rejections, of rising, of bouncing back, and of triumphs.

I told you stories about friends, about a singer I admire, about my pets, about my plants and bonsai, about the space I live and its corners.

I wrote about my pen, the paper, the roads, the garden, the pond and it’s inhabitants, I brought you to the places I traveled, about my job, my wishes, and dreams.

I have revealed to you few of my secrets,

I have walked in your presence naked, for in all the 200 posts that I placed here, I wrote them with so much honesty and they are my truth. 

After 200 posts, I thought I still have so much to tell, I still have a lot in my notebooks that I have not shared, there are still many thoughts inside my head nugging me to give them life in writing, I still have heap of drafts that need to be finished,  my heart streams hasn’t ceased flowing and each drop are stories, and poetry and artworks that is mine to offer.

There are still secrets I keep in my heart, and I know time would make me reveal them.

There are still so much joy and sorrows, and mirths to look forward to.

The seasons will continue their cycles.

I still view life, like a child with his nose pressed up against the window watching the world with wide-eyed wonder of a grown up tyke. 

Their are places I still have to travel and see, awaiting like blank canvas beaconing for my brush strokes to give them colors and tangible forms.

Like a clean slate and pristine white pages longing for the ink from my heart that would bring them to life

And give them wings to fly like birds to find their homes to your hearts.

Thank you for reading.

I wish you well.

 

~ Jeques

 

 


Reconciling With Poetry (Reposted for WI)

     Here’s an old post that I thought perfect for Writer’s Island matinee muse this week: “Reconciliation”

       My love for poetry traces back to my childhood, When I vaguely understood what I was chanting. I started reciting poems before I learned to read or write. Memorization came not from reading, but from listening; not from understanding the words or the message of the verse with the mind, but with the heart. It was primarily the sound of its rhythmical composition, more than anything, which lured me to it. Grasping the metaphors and absorbing the meaning concealed between the lines came much later. It captured my heart before it conquered my mind. This is probably the reason for my enduring love affair with poetry.

       As a tyke, I liked listening to the rhythmic tone of my high-pitched voice as I would parrot poems – joining and winning contests – before I entered school. What sounds good to the ears of a child feels good to the heart:

…The shepherd came to worship; the tiny baby smiled.

It is an old, old story; old yet forever new.

Watch for the little star tonight;

It will shine for me and you.”

And just like most of the singers learning their first song, I, too, learned my first poem by listening.

        Poetry for me then, as it is still to me now, like love, needs no extra ordinary thoughts to touch the heart. Purity speaks the truth. I can now tell when a poem was written using blood-stained ink from the heart:

“Don’t forget me; make a shrine to hold me

Safe and warm within your faithful heart;

Weave a web of happy thoughts to fold me

In all remembrance, when we part…”

       Now, if it was not the heart of Rafael Dimayuga that wrote this lines, what could it possibly be? Those lovely words were finely entwined, undoubtedly, by love. Reading this poem leads me to the re-discovery of a treasure box I feared to open for a very long time. It was the key that re-opened something in me that I locked from the inside. It unleashed the dormant would-be poet in me, an inclination I lost with my first taste of rejection, when I was expelled from seminary at the age of thirteen. I have outgrown the trauma, but the scar remains – God knows it still hurts. The seminary produced many success stories of priests; mine was a sad story of defeat. My english teacher, a priest, dropped me from a poetry recital contest in favor of his pet student(it is a long story, I’ll wrote about that in a separate post). I felt bad, so did some of my classmates who thought I was more deserving. I lost interest in everything after that incident, my vocation included. By the end of the school year, I was kicked out.

       Something in me died. It was my lowest point that inchoate my long detachment from anything poetic. There were times when I felt it resurfaced for some brief moments, whenever something or someone whisks my heart with gentle strokes or reckless blows. My lack of the resources of language to speak my mind and the fear of confronting my too sensitive feelings quelled it even more. I was unaware, though, that I channeled my creativity into other mediums: There’s poetry in my sketches and paintings, and my bonsai in the garden. I now understand.

       Love and rejection, indeed, gets in the same route into, and out of our hearts. Rejection locked my heart once, and it was love that reopened it years later. It started with meager and petty journal entries:

… i thought we have it, but somewhere along the way we lost it. Shall we ever regain it, perhaps at least i still hope, in the end?”

Then it progressed into short vignettes;

I am forever tracing in my mind
The creases in your palms,
When you pressed it close to mine
~

Your last strong grip,
Our last hand shake ~

Then we bade goodbye.”

       Moving further,  I progressed and tried free verse:

“At night, I light a lamp

So even in the long dark hours

The little spark of my thoughts of you

Could light the moment

As I read my life’s pages back

To the times

When you were still with me.”

       I heard that strangely familiar voice of the child again. And there he was, just like the last time I heard him. Albeit mellowed, and unlike before, he now demands to deliver not somebody else’s thoughts but his own. So I listned. Listning I did in the placidity of early mornings, when silence utters messages that we can understand if we listen with an open mind and a quiet heart:

If you need a quiet place,
A perfect haven to rest;
Come let me be,
You can lie on my chest.

There you will hear a single sound,
A love song at its best;
‘Tis there that you will hear,
The whisper of my heartbeats.

Hey, stay with me
And let me be
Your quiet place to rest.

       I wrote this poem, “A Quiet Place To Rest,” just about the same time I was rediscovering my love for poetry. I wrote this then for someone who I eventually lost. But  reading it, I know now that this poem is actually for me. And that is how we reconciled, and began our journey together again.

       It was hard to believe and convince myself initially that I could write and I am a poet. But we all are. For every literate person, according to David Kirby, has it in himself to be a good poet. The good news is each of us is a poet already, or at least used to be, it’s just that most of us have gone into early retirement. It is relaxing – like a balm to the heart – to read and write poetry. I read poems to find more of its secrets and to be reminded that poems can be written. Books of poetry gives me a simple surprise that more poems are there and that the magic is available. One poet said that most of us are poets on-call because poetry only comes when it wants to. So we should always make ourselves available. E.E. Cummings also said that “a poet is only a poet during a few hours of his lifetime. The rest of the time he is a would-be poet.” So here I am reconciled with my first love. Our years apart makes a good plot for my works. I promised my self not to let go of poetry again.

       I do not know where my life’s journey with poetry is going to take me. I always have this incessant vision of me in my mind: standing on the bank of a river, I watch the waters flow, and wonder where the river came, and where life goes. I can only look as far as my eyes can see and my heart can imagine.

~ Jeques

http://writersislnd.wordpress.com


Cover Story

I write because I feel that something inside me needs to be said, a voice wanting to be heard, a seed needing to see the light of day. . .

I discovered that when I express myself in writing, I need an ideal shape and form for my thoughts to be fully understood. I allow my heart and my intuition to guide me to pick the right pattern to entwine with the music of my soul that gives rhythm to my poetry. I value clarity and honesty, they are the be-all and end-all of my works.

I write my poems because I feel them, I believe them, they are my truth ~ they are me. I don’t give my pieces limitations as to their form and shape. Some pieces want to be all over the pages like a simple poetic journal entry. . .

“what now? I don’t know. I ride the tides, sail with the wanton winds lossing my anchor. Wherever it will take me, there I am. I just hope one day the tides and the winds will take this vessel back to you to anchor me. . . “

Some wanted to be written in free verse. . .

People

Places

Things

Nature,

Life

Offer abundant inspirations.

Some occur only in my imagination

Silent illusions ~

Writings done initially in the mind:

Dreams in my sleep.

But like seeds seeing the light of day,

They sprout from their coats

Grow leaves

Take roots

And display colorful blooms

When I awake.

They become sketches in words ~

Stories, poems, music of my soul

Written on pages.

Stories not told die.

Dreams remain in the shadows

If we don’t live them.

Random thoughts nag me.

My hands itch to write

My body has to live my thoughts.

I allow them. 

And that’s when Poetry Becomes me.

Other thoughts are expressed better in Haiku. . .

Sublime Ruler(Haiku)

Majestic ridges

                       Enthroned on placid blue sea

                                                              Crowned by fluffy clouds.

Senryu. . .

Hunters live to take

                      Gardeners exist to give

                                                   But both shepherd life.

Tanka. . .

The best of prayers

Are chants from the heart in songs.

I don’t have a gift

A voice to pray in a song.

So I’m praying though my poems.

Others may need to be written in vignette. . .

As the sun sets to the west

I lay, shut-eyed, on its chest.

The eastern breeze pass a gentle whisk on my face.

I listen closely to the songs of the sea

As the waves come home

Like a lover breaking down

To the chest of the waiting shore.

I lay there and wait.

While some require refinements like in sonnet. . .

A Walk Around The Oval

Once more I walk the oval track today,
And ponder yet again, “What is my role?”
Am I just making circles every day
In life’s arena, like an errant soul?
I walk around the never ending trail:
A fallen leaf caught in a swirling stream;
Or like an army, ever locked in drill.
I am engrossed and walk in my own dream.
Some strangers share my lane but not my muse.
You’re far, and yet, our thoughts are much the same;
I’m not alone then in the road I choose;
Beyond the oval someone shares my lane.

                    In you my lonesome soul finds home to stay,
                    For in my heart you’re near, you’re here with me.

And still others are better left as prose.

I listen to my heart when chosing a structure because if I follow my mind, free verse just disguises the laziness in my thoughts and execution, and the formal verse just sugar-coats my bloodless triviality. The heart recognizes the difference, and so I write only with my heart.

Most of my earlier works are written in the morning when my job still allow me to wake up at dawn for my morning pages. Now that I work night shift, afternoon becomes my morning ~ so it is safe to say that I write when I rise, whatever the time of day. It is important that I capture my thoughts as soon as it start to reveal itself because when I miss them, they are lost forever. It’s like an entangled thread that I need to find its  loose end and writing helps me untangle my thoughts to clarity.

“Tis great to think with a free mind;

                               ’tis wonderful to love with an unretrained heart.”

These words speak my life’s mantra, and I found my enlightenment by writing.

I hope my written works, the songs of my soul will find home in your hearts. Because when you read them, you’re listening to this tyke’s voice, and I allow you to take a peek to my waif soul.

I wish you well.

~ Jeques


Q&A

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I’ve been quite unwell lately. It started last saturday morning (For those not in the know, I’m a night shift nurse), I went to sleep from work and woke up at 11am with bad chills. So for the next 4 days I manage to do my night shifts with slight fever. I am really less creative when I’m sick, but that doesn’t stop me from doing something. Yesterday afternoon with 98.9 F temperature, I cleared my hotmail mailbox from old files and found this Q & A e-mail I got from my poet friend Benjamin Mosley(I met him at poets.com workshop, we lost contact when I stopped). I thought of answering the questions and share some more of my self with you. 

1. FIRST NAME?      Jesus, Jeques.

2. WERE YOU NAMED AFTER ANYONE? My father has a story why he named me Jesus. He said he prayed a son for a youngest and promised I would be named Jesus when it is granted, it was and I got my name. But in highschool, I feel so uncomfortable with my name. This was the time when I was expelled from the seminary. I feel undeserving of my name, so I think of a neckname for my self. I first spelled it as “Jecks,” and eventually change the spelling to “Jeques.”  I think I deserve a name that I would like people to be calling me now that I’m grown up and have the freedom to choose. 

3. WHEN DID YOU LAST CRY?  I cried just yesterday feeling so sick and remembering home. I’ve been living alone since I moved here in Chicago last year and I’m fine. But it’s different when you’re sick.

4. DO YOU LIKE YOUR HANDWRITING?     Yes.

5. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE LUNCHMEAT?  Porkchop, drumstick

6. KIDS?       I’m the only kid in my apartment.

7. IF YOU WERE ANOTHER PERSON, WOULD YOU BE FRIENDS WITH YOU?     Yes, I think I would. I’ve been spending my life alone with myself and I feel comfortable with my company. I’ve come to terms with myself already and made peace with the person within me.

8. DO YOU HAVE A JOURNAL?   I write poetry. I used to keep scrapbooks that served as my journal when I was still in the Philippines and had the time. But now, my web nook has become my journal.

9. DO YOU USE SARCASM A LOT?   When circumstances call for it.

10. DO YOU STILL HAVE YOUR TONSILS?  Yes.

11. WOULD YOU BUNGEE JUMP?    It’s one of those things I wanted to try, but would rather not.

12. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE CEREAL?     Rice, I’m a Filipino, eh.

13. DO YOU UNTIE YOUR SHOES WHEN YOU TAKE THEM OFF?   No.

14. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE ICE CREAM FLAVOR?   Mango, but I don’t really crave for ice cream.

15. DO YOU THINK THAT YOU ARE STRONG?   I am. In the sense that I’m able to rise above any situation that life throws on me. I’ve been through a lot, and I’m still standing.

16. SHOE SIZE?   6 and 1/2 to 7

17. RED OR PINK?   Red.

18. WHAT IS YOUR LEAST FAVORITE THING ABOUT YOURSELF? I want to get things done to the point of over exhausting myself. Sometimes, I don’t know when to say stop.

19. WHOM DO YOU MISS THE MOST?    My family back home, my mother.

20. DO YOU WANT EVERYONE TO SEND THIS BACK TO YOU?  Yes. I want to find out how other people answer these questions.

21. WHAT COLOR PANTS AND SHOES ARE YOU WEARING?    Khaki/white, Denim blue/white

23. WHAT ARE YOU LISTENING TO RIGHT NOW?  Greatest pop ballads

24. IF YOU WERE A CRAYON, WHAT COLOR WOULD YOU BE? darker shade of green

25. FAVORITE SMELL?    the salty scent of the sea, early morning smoky scent of woods burning in the farm, freshly cut grass, ricefields the morning after rain. They remind me of childhood.

26. WHO WAS THE LAST PERSON YOU TALKED TO ON THE PHONE?     My mother.

27. THE FIRST THING YOU NOTICE ABOUT PEOPLE?   The sincerity in their eyes.

28. DO YOU LIKE THE PERSON THAT SENT THIS TO YOU?  Ben helped me a lot when I was starting to write poetry. He helped me polished some of my early works. I like him for the willing mentor that he is to me.

29. FAVORITE DRINK?    Coke’s Zero(Calories), Orange Juice

30. FAVORITE SPORT? I’ve never been into sports. The closest to sports I love to do is long walks – I used to do regular early morning walks in the beach when I was still in the Philippines. And I miss that.

31. EYE COLOR?       Brown.

32. HAT SIZE?  Oh, I didn’t know they have sizes.

33. DO YOU WEAR CONTACTS?        No.

34. FAVORITE FOOD?   Home cooked filipino foods.

35. SCARY MOVIE OR HAPPY ENDING?      Happy endings, we’re running out of stories with happy endings in real life already, in fiction at least we should.

36. LAST MOVIE YOU WATCHED AT THE MOVIES?   I’ve never been to a movie theatre since I came here. The last movie I watch was Superman 4 in the Philippines at SM Mall of Asia.

37. WHAT COLOR SHIRT ARE YOU WEARING?        Mostly whites.

38. WINTER OR SUMMER?  Summer, but since I moved here, I think I like winter, too. (Make up your mind, Jeques!)

39. HUGS OR KISSES?    Hugs then kisses, why choose if I could have them at the same time.

40. FAVORITE DESSERT?    Fruits.

41. WHO IS MOST LIKELY TO RESPOND?     Those that are not busy. Or maybe those who are sick and looking for something good to do like me at this moment.

42. WHO IS LEAST LIKELY TO RESPOND?   Those that don’t know themselves much and would have stopped answering at number 3.       

43. WHAT BOOK ARE YOU READING?  A Poet’s Guide to Poetry By: Mary Kinzie.

44. What’s ON YOUR MOUSE PAD?  I don’t use one.

45. WHAT DID YOU WATCH ON TV LAST NIGHT?  I stopped watching TV since I started painting.

46. FAVORITE SOUND?   gentle seawaves in the beach, silence. 

47. ROLLING STONES OR BEATLES?      I didn’t really grew up listening to their music.

48. THE FURTHEST YOU’VE BEEN FROM HOME?     Now, Chicago.

49. WHAT IS YOUR PRESENT OCCUPATION?   I’m a Nurse.

50. WHERE WERE YOU BORN? The Philippines.

51. WHO SENT THIS TO YOU?    My Poet friend, Benjamin Mosley.

You are invited to participate with me on this.  Here’s how:

Copy this entirely and paste it into a new e-mail.  Change all the answers so that they apply to you and then send this to a whole bunch of people including me.

Just give in and do it!  The theory is that you will reveal little known things about yourself to people that you aren’t too afraid of knowing you better and that you will come to know them better as they respond.  It is supposed to be fun, and most of the questions are easy to answer.