Taming This Tyke's Voice Since 2007

Poem

Self-Portrait of the Artist: In Words

Jeques turns 41: A walk in the mist at Sans-Souci Lake, New Buffalo, MI. July 31, 2013.

Jeques turns 41: A walk in the mist at Sans-Souci Lake, New Buffalo, MI. July 31, 2013.

  Jesus “Jeques” B. Jamora, 41

Case Manager/BSN/Registered Nurse/Self-taught Artist/Poet

“Dots and lines on the right place is Art” ~ Jeques

My romance with art is a-love-at-first-grip kind of thing. The moment I first held a pencil, I knew it in my heart that it is something I would love to do for the rest of my life.

I started to draw when I was around 3 years old: creating dots, connected them with lines and then my mother taught me my first art lesson to form the dots and lines to flowers: my first subject. She stopped teaching me when I drew better flowers than she did; outgrowing her art lessons quick. She advanced and became my first fan and art collector. My first art exhibit was in her convenient store when she would show my drawings to her clients. That was my childhood version of an art gallery. My earliest art portfolio was my mother’s record books lost to time, but never in my memory.

My first art critic was my father. He thought my works were insignificant and told me to do other things. The hardest thing he asked me to do was to use my right hand, I was born left handed. It was a subtle way to suppress my gift, and then he put me in the seminary where I had my first rejection at 13 when I was expelled. I drifted like a waif, then he decided the nursing course for me, ignoring my pleas to put me in an art school in college. I could not blame him though, I was born in a third world country, the Philippines; we need to choose a career that could bring food on the table instead of joy to the heart.

I was caught in the middle trying to balance early on: between my nurturing mother and my highly critical father. I never had formal education in the art. Alone in my room, close doors, is my childhood version of an art institute where I had my art classes 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. The gift is ingrained. I was born with the passion that not even my father was able to control from flourishing.

Somebody encouraged me to join my first painting contest in college and won every competition that followed. It was a tiny spark that kept the torch of my dream lighted in my passage through the dark gorge of dormancy. It put my inner compass back to place to follow the direction that my destiny would take me.

I trod many paths from that point, connected directions that my journey took me. I arrived in Chicago, autumn of 2006 as a nurse, but my solitude nurtured and awakened the dormant artist in me sleeping for a very long time. My first attempts were paintings in words through poetry, but my inner itch intensified and found myself buying materials that my nursing profession made me afford and just started painting.

I am still that kid who would seek my mother’s appreciation every time I finish an art piece to get her nod 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, too, still am the kid who feared the criticisms of my father that made me rip many pages of my sketches, and toss away many of my earlier works unfinished. I see my father’s image in people who thought my works are insignificant. I find courage in people who tell me otherwise. But deep in my heart, I have to admit I still seek for his approval that he was so selfish to give. He died in 2008, and I thought I’m free now, I always was!

I had since come to terms with my resentments to my father. I thank him for being distant, for it brought me closer to myself, to my soul. And for that, he taught me to fight a good fight. Wherever he may be right now, I wish he look down to see I found my way.

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 gallery, a home ~ your hearts.

And like a desolate soul a lonely waif

I wait for you to find me.

May your travels not take you long,

Come fast and love me.

"Waif" Oil on canvas, 30x30 by Jeques, 2009

“Waif” Oil on canvas, 30×30 by Jeques, 2009

Through my works, I would like to represent the displaced artists in different fields for some reasons, becoming like waifs, that I am, searching for home. I share the sentiments of artists unable to do their arts, caged in the jobs that are far from what their hearts purely desire to do. I aim as an artist to speak to that audience, to inspire them through my works and to make a statement that it is possible. Every art piece I finish is a struggle, but each is a step closer to home.

My paintings are conceived from my poems. In poetry, the words are my brushstrokes to create imageries in those times when I still can’t afford the painting materials back in the Philippines. Poetry still serves me well now in my study for painting subjects. All my paintings are titled because they are clear in my mind’s senses before they took form on canvas. Many of my paintings complete the circle becoming poems. My brushstrokes are the words I use to conjure imagery in the mind’s senses.

And when I think of it ~ this circle of my poems becoming paintings, and the paintings’ metamorphosis to poetry ~ I am enlightened that there’s really no single strand that separates them. Sketches and drawings are my scribbling: my drafts. Each completed painting is a finished poetry.

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.

I wish you well.

~ Jeques

Jeques turns 41: Sailing in the mist at Sans-souci which literally means life without a care.

Jeques turns 41: Sailing in the mist at Sans-souci which literally means life without a care.

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EVENTUALITY a poem by Jeques, 2010

Jeques

Don’t fear
Sleep well now.
Dream dreams and find solace in the hearth
Amidst the cold of his absence.
Shadows shall pass,
The clouding of the moment
Shall clear. Eventually.

Don’t waver
Walk this day now.
Step your foot forward
In synch with the ticking of the clock,
For we’re part of the veinal flow of the universe
This slow procession of prolonged agony
Shall reach its end
In her chamber. Eventually.

Refuse to cede
Get up now.
Endure the inner battles that defeats you.
Holdfast to your courage
Even when the last ray of hope sets
And throws twilight on your face.
Stay awake for twilights always
Transit to dawn. Eventually.

Raise your chin
Look up now.
Aim to climb the mountains once more
Where a new summit awaits.
Cling your tendrils of faith secure
And leap.
The makeshift shelter I offer may be frail,
But it could send you off
To your journey
To the stars. Eventually.

Find solace in my meek heart.


The Succumbming

Jeques
.
THE SUCCUMBING “ang magparaya”
a poem by Jeques, 2009
.
I cling to the filaments
Of the past to the last strand
For a long time.
Until I can hold no more,
And gave in
Succumbing to the will
Of changes.
.
I awake from the dream
I once lived
That’s hard to keep my distance,
But the fine grains in the time glass
Emptied to its bottom,
So I gave in
Succumbing to the calls
Of the moment.
.
I reached a point
Where the river flowed no more
Where the springs halted
And the last puddle of hope emptied.
.
How could I paint the pain of yielding?
So I just whispered my sighs
To the mangroves
Hoping when the tides return
They would carry my muted chants
To your heart.The winds of long ago
Shall return to visit,
They will blow through the leaves of the mangroves,
The tides shall rise and recede below,
And chant the antiphons of my stories
Again and again and again
‘Til they reach you..

The pain of succumbing to the will of changes,
The acceptance that lost moments never return.

.

No more silent breakfast to share
That I dreamed about many mornings.

.

No more lazy walks in the streets and allowing my feet
Where it would take me.

.

No more reading, finding quietude in the crowd
In some busy coffee shops.

.

No more memories to weave
For the story concluded to a silent halt

.

Like when the last flare of the fireworks
Faded in the night skies ending my fancy
And what’s left is the fume of longing.

.

I gave in and endure
The pain that comes with changes.
I succumb to the over powering force
Of the inevitable end.

.

I awake to the dawning of tomorrow
To breath the fresh air of its promise
Of the bliss that I still have to live.

~
ang magparaya

.

“Mailalarawan ba ang sakit ng pagpaparaya? Ibubulong ko nalang ang nararamdaman sa mga puno ng bakawan. Ang hangin ng nakalipas ay babalik at iihip sa mga dahon ng bakawan. Ang tubig dagat ay tataas at bababa. Paulit-ulit nilang aawitin ang tula ng aking mga kwento hangang ito ay umabot sa iyo.”


Jeques’s Web Nook Turns FIVE

Today marks the fifth year anniversary of my web page, my web nook, the corner where I pour my poetic heart; the canvas of my life where the colorful palette of my soul comes home when he needs to exhale, to tell his stories, to write his verses, to compose his thoughts into songs, to share his travels and make his soliloquies be heard.

In celebration of this milestone, I now fully own the domain: Jeques.Me

Jeques.Me


Poetry Becomes Me

No words, just images that tell volumes of thoughts . . .


Mid-Air: my poem that inspired my daily photo-blog for the month of February, 2012

Mid-Air

(prologue)

The curtain of the night drops.

The howling of the wind

That echoes in the canyon

Cloaked the silence of closure.

Heaven sends its final greeting

In the form of raindrops

Kissing hope

Goodnight.

~

(act one)

Where do I start, or

Did it ever end?

Words left me, or

Was I?

Should I pick up from where I left, or

Simply move by?

Had I left the palette black, or

Was it white, or

Simply the absence of colors ~

My absence.

A temporary recluse,

A self-exile from

My drawing board,

My writing table.

The easel put away,

As I lament

A closure of the page.

A quiet epilogue

Amidst the fading light

And sound Of the rain

At twilight.

(act two)

Slowly,

The heart begins to pound.

A sign of life

Among the rabbles

Like walking dead

With no direction

Lost

(In the dark streets to nowhere)

And found.

Signs of the bread crumbs

Leading home

Are apparent

As the sun breaks

Through the ridges;

Tapering the edges of the shadow.

The sweet mist of last night’s rain

Kissed the deserted page

Where words will begin to form again

Like spring sprouts

That would bring splashes

Of colors

And rapturous sounds

To a heart coming back to life.

~

(epilogue)

Where things end,

And where they begin is undefined.

Where I stopped

And when I begin is not known to me.

Everyday I awake,

I breath.

That’s what I know.


Quiescence

Piquance retires to dormancy.

Cold besieged the waning blaze

As days take longer sleep

For now,

And I take shelter in dreaming.

.

My spirit drops

To quiecence

This time.

I travel still, but ~

Only now my journey

Moves inward.

Winter wouldn’t freeze

Life’s pagination.

Snowfalls bring

Frosty slate

Of pristine pages

Ready for my thoughts

To carve icy tracks.

As my mind skids down

To quiescence ~

For now.

.

I wrap myself

To nothingness

From your view,

Retiring to my cocoon

For my travels

This time

Points inward.

.

I chase the wake of change

Where sunrise breaks on ridges ~

The towering ridges

That lies on quiescence

.

Within.


Waiting For The Sign

Please Click sound button for the soundtrack >>>

 

Eyes  lie in wait ~

Day and night ~

Skies in surveillance

Waiting for the sign

That might be sent

From the future,

As the gentle streams of life,

And the rough currents

Of circumstances

That ever oppose

Mold the pebbles

In the bed of stones

By the river

Adorned by some weeds

Unimportant

Unknown.

"pebbles" pencil, pen and ink on paper by Jeques 2011

Awaiting for some hands

To pick them up.

 

Awaiting for some great minds

To give them names.

 

Unaccounted for ~

Remaining like a worthless bead

In the infinities ~

Awaiting for some gifted hands

To weave him

In the precious thread

Of chance, to adorn

Like a pendant

To rest forever

Closest to your chest.

 

Pick me from the infinities

And carve my fingers

With marks to define my distiction.

Paint my blank facade

With a face

And buy me a name.

 

Find me in the dunes.

You’d easily recognize me

Among the pebbles.

Look closely

And find in my eyes

Your own reflection:

 

Waiting for the sign.

 

 

 

 


Quiet Fun

Watch the tides

In the bay,

Grub remnants

From erstwhile morning,

Of blithe facets gone by.

Hush frolic thoughts,

Soothe reckless times,

Sort out tangled memories

On a drowsy midday

And be ready,

And be ready,

And be ready to get hold

Of the hand of passing time

From this moment forth.

Know which rock to hold

When the cliffs are slippery.

Climb up with certainty,

But know when to hang on

Or climb down, if necessary.

And be ready.

 

Lay the spirit down

On the hay

Of the harvests

From erstwhile morning,

Calm and carefree.

Watch the clouds

Form

Dissolve,

And Resurface fluffy

Souffle and sweet

To the tongue of memories recalled

On a dreamy midday

And be ready,

And be ready,

And be ready to confront

The inevitable streams of time

From this moment forth.

Know when to sow

And to toil night and day.

Sprinkle the earth

With blood and sweat

That trickle on the forehead ~

Let the seeds grow,

But know when to stop

And celebrate the harvest,

When it is time.

And be ready.

 

Come home on a rainy day

To an aged couch, old and saggy,

That kept imprints

From erstwhile morning,

Of blots of ink and paint

Red and blue

From childish blows

And gentle touches.

Trace back  the stories

From stains and tears,

Unreeling,

On a quiet midday

And be ready,

And be ready

And be ready with soothing

But sometimes harsh whisks

Of the nearing eventide

From this moment forth.

Know the terrains,

And be guarded of the stings

Of each season, but be happy.

Be accepting and resigned,

And embrace the gifts

Of each moment

To build the plinth –

With stable bricks –

Of one’s equanimity

That mellows in time.

 

Take a moment

To keep your thoughts hushed

And tarry like the water in the bay.

Take time to glance back

To the parting waves

Of the erstwhile morning

And listen to the silence

Of the midday.

And be reay,

And be ready,

And be ready

 

To watch the sunset

In the bay

With me.

"Midday" a poem by Jeques Jamora, 2010


Bait

 

You are always ripples away,

The tides ever

Between us.

 

Series of hurdles

As it appears in the surface

That this meek soul

Secretly transcends beneath;

Away from the prying eyes

Of predation.

 

You are designed

For cruel intentions,

That is how the world sees you.

But for the many years

That I followed your lead,

I learned to give your purpose

A different meaning.

 

I am grateful

To the hands that keep my safety

Disguised in undulation ~

Of the sudden swell of  waves between us.

Oftentimes your absence disheartens me,

Scared of losing you to the crest of tides, 

But reassured to see you still there

When the morning after 

Calms the bubbling surfs,

That in many occasions pushed us apart.

 

I praise the hands that hold

The mysterious fishing pole

And for chosing you the bait,

And thank time, too,

For helping me understand.

You are the reason

Why I swim the extra laps;

Take another stroke,

No matter how helpless

My frail attempts ~

Against the raging currents ~

Just to be near you.

 

Reason that I doubt,

The world’s shallow definition

Of predator and prey 

Would ever come to comprehend.

 

Your lead brought me to the deeps,

You are the pivot that draws me to the blue;

A hope that keeps my buoyancy,

And not sink in the ocean,

In the heart of possibilities.

 

When are you going to consume me?

 

~

(Follow the lead of your dream, trust the hands that hold the fishing pole and His design where the bait is going to take you. ~ Jeques)

The dragonfly is always been my metaphor in following the lead of my dreams. I used to chase them in the green fileds when I was a kid, like my dreams that I continue to chase as grown up.

—–

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