- “morning panes” #1 oil on canvas 30×40, by Jeques B. Jamora
- “morning panes” series #1 to 3
- “morning panes” #2 oil on canvas 30×40, by Jeques B. Jamora, 2009
- “morning panes” #3 oil on canvas 38×48, by Jeques B. Jamora
Where Hearts Converge
This sad ending would be our beginning ~
Face to face, you and me, aboard the train.
Together, albeit our roads parting:
Mine bounds north, yours south. Then it starts to rain.
Would time and space bring us happy ending?
Would we converge in this station again?
And just like that, we’re on our own again ~
Watching the blankness of our beginning
Through the panes of an uncertain ending
Like errant souls on board the express train
Listening to the sad notes of the rain
Heaven’s soundtrack to our fateful parting.
Time slips our palms like the daylights parting ~
‘Tis dark, and gloom embraces us again.
But our sorrows will be washed by the rain.
This railroads meet to a fresh beginning.
We will get there, let us allow the train.
And then we’ll entomb these woes to ending.
We travel through this passage’s ending ~
The railroads fork and we see hearts parting.
Tons of broken souls carried by the train.
But rails would weave them together again.
To debark in frontiers of beginning,
Like seed sprouting, bathed by the springtime rain.
As pains’ dusts settle soaked by the rain,
The turmoil alights to a graceful ending.
The heart learns to hum tunes of beginning,
And understands that even the parting
Is part of it all, then we smile again ~
As we weave our stories inside the train.
I get off, now enlightened, from the train ~
Mind’s pellucid like skies after the rain.
Heart’s calm awaiting to see you again.
May you look forward to the same ending,
May your thoughts not be hazed by this parting.
‘Til we reach our station of beginning.
Last night’s rain crooned our sorrows to ending.
Trains meet again in our point of parting ~
Where hearts converge to a new beginning.
(Where Hearts Converge a Sestina I wrote for the poetry workshop I attend every wednesday. Jeques, 2009)
Have I told you I started attending a weekly poetry workshop last wednesday? I think not. The workshop will run for 6 weeks this summer. I chanced upon the Ad when I got me some books for my painting studies in Evanston, IL public libruary. I missed one session but I was able to submit a poem for the first poetry form : Cento, a poetry made up of lines borrowed from a combination of established authors, usually resulting in a change in meaning. For me, the beauty of composing a Cento is it makes you read poetry and appreciate more the lines. This poetry would be very helpful to beginners, it could be a starting point because to write poetry, a poet needs and should read first the works of other poets and Cento just help you do that, it makes you appreaciate the work of others, makes you compose from their inspirations and perhaps help you find your voice along the way.
I was cramming when I put this cento poem together. I called tuesday(July 7) afternoon if it was possible for me to catch up since I missed the first week. Joshua, the moderator, said yes and told me about the Cento which was discussed the previous week and that I have to bring a piece the next day if I’m interested to attend. I work night shift, but I brought with me one of my favorite poetry books to work that night, and during dead hours read poems of great authors and line by line composed a Cento. The first line I got from the song, “Eversince the world begun,” the soundtrack of the 1989 movie: Lock up. Here is the piece I put together and I read during the first session(July 8).
I never knew what brought me here
You entered my life in a casual way.
The dream we dream together here,
All paths lead to you where e’er I stray.
There is nothing that last, not one.
Yet still the story and the meaning stay.
Somebody said that it couldn’t be done.
Yet it well might be that never for me.
I need so much the quiet of your love.
A love like this can know no death.
I need your calm all other things above.
Your precious presence is the air I breath.
I want you through every changing season
If not, then let me live this life alone.
(This Wanting a Cento poem. Here are the poems and the authors I got the lines of this poem from: line #2 TO A FRIEND by Grace Stricker Dawson, #3 IN THE ROSE GARDEN byJohn Bennett, #4 ALL PATHS LEAD TO YOU by Blanch Shoemaker Wagrooff, #5 HER ANSWER by John Bennett, #6 THE RIGHT KIND OF PEOPLE by Edwin Markham, #7 SOMEBODY SAID THAT IT COULDN’T BE DONE by Edgar Guest, #8 OUR OWN by Margaret Sangster, #9 AT NIGHT FALL by Charles Hanson Towne, #10 AD FINEM by Ella Wheeler Wilcox, #11 AT NIGHT FALL by Charles Hanson Towne, #13 I WANT YOU by Arthur L. Gillom. Lines #12 and 14 are my original)
Last wednesday(July 8), we discussed the poetry form: Sestina. I have been always interested to try writing a poem in this form but the structure is too demanding thereby forbidding, so I always end up throwing first drafts. The reason why I’ve always longed to get myself into a workshop is to get the chance to be crafty again with poetry, and this just works that way for me. Since I’m now slowing down with painting nearing the completion of my collection, I find time to write again and the poem included here is my first produce when I finally got myself sitted again to study poetry structures and working the craft. The sentina we compose this week will be read and discussed on our next workshop this coming wednesday(July 15).
Let me share with you sestina’s definition from the Academy of American Poets
The sestina is a complex form that achieves its often spectacular effects through intricate repetition. The thirty-nine-line form is attributed to Arnaut Daniel, the provencal troubador of the 12th century. The name “troubadour” like comes from trobar, which means to invent or compose verse. The troubadours sang their verses accompanied by music and were quite competitive, each trying to top the next in wit, as well as complexity and difficulty of style.
The sestina follows a strict pattern of the repetition of the initial 6 end-words of the first stanza throught the remaining five six-line stanzas, culminating in a three-line envoi. The lines may be of any length, though in its initial incarnation, the sestina followed a syllabic restriction.
Note: I followed a 10-syllabic count in each line respectively in my poem.
The form is as follows, where each numeral indicates the stanza position and the letters represent end-words:
7 (envoi) ECA or ACE ( I used ECA, please note that I also used all the 6 end-words in the last three lines)
The envoi, sometimes known as the tornada, must also include the remaining three-end words, BDF, in the course of the three lines so that all six recurring words appear in the final three lines. In place of a rhyme scheme, the sestina relies on end-word repetition to effect a sort of rhyme.
The poetry idea using the train and the train station as backdrop have been chasing me and been resurfacing my mind for more than a year now. I first got the idea when one time we took the subway here in chicago(hence, the reference to the north and south bound directions of the train), The place just poured me such an overwhelming poetry inspiration, but I did not act on it instantly for many reasons, and one of them is I’m still finding the right structure to give the poetry idea a body that it would need. Last year, I wrote the poem Summer, Gone. The poem contains some of the ideas that are infused in Where Hearts Converge. Here’s the poem Summer gone:
You came to bring me summer sunshine,
You left to leave me autumn gloom.
Like a speeding train,
What happened to the vibrant days,
Where have my sunshine gone?
Why do the clouds just suddenly
My smile, don’t fade away
Why do you have to give up
Your sunny yellow ~
Have I not brought
Your life some bright lights,
Why do we have to go apart
Would the evening light
In this changing season,
Would it ease
The growing yearning
With its subdued
I rest my heart
In this lonely season.
But I would keep our paths
Of grass growths.
May the railroad
That took you away
Would lead you
And when you’re tired
Chasing the changing seasons,
You could always return
To an endless
Here in my resolute
I think it is also important to mention here that the heart of this poem and the sentiment I expressed here was originally conceived in the poem One Heart which I composed in 2003.
Two different people
Living separate lives
Wanting different dreams
Going to opposite directions.
But then they met.
And they become one
One heart in two different people
One in their thoughts
Going towards the same direction ~
Living the same dreams.
Where Hearts Converge is one of the poems I’ve written that really went through a very long process. The idea, the sentiments and the heart of the poem came and present itself to me in fragments, but I believe I was able to gather the elements in a piece which I put together here and give it the perfect body in the sestina structure.
I already have a painting idea in mind for this poem which I conceived some few months back. The title is “Convergence,” a painting series of 4 pieces and I will be using the Kois and the elements of the railroads in the painting which I will post here when I finish the series. Until then, but for now, I included an illustration of the poem in pencil, pen and ink sketches on drawing paper.
My creative muse prompts me to begin writing on a fresh page as I start a new process of knowing. This is the time of my life when I do things because I feel like doing them. Like, I write because I would like to read my thoughts tangible in words taking form written on pages, so I would get a better grasp of them.
Like the damselflies of my childhood, I don’t chase my thoughts anymore now that I’m grown up. My mind, like my palms to the damdelflies, I will open so dreams and thoughts could freely alight to show me their beauty. I will befriend this elusive guests instead of running after them like I did during my reckless youth. Perhaps this way, I could encourage their frequent visits.
To The Deeps
When half the world is asleep,
The prying eyes of the nocturnal owl
Stay alert for mice dozing undergrownds.
A turtle slowly prowls in a swamp
Disturbing the resting fishes
On the shallow waters.
Somewhere, you are confined
Asleep in your room dreaming.
While I stay awake questioning.
Am I part of your dreams tonight?
Would I take part in your life
When you awake in the morning?
The night ends
With the owl catching no mice.
The fishes has gone to The deeps,
But the turtle hasn’t reach where ’tis going.
Just like me with my doubts never fading.
But nevertheless always wishing
That one day I’d stop questioning
And to The deeps I’d just let the fishes
Unhurried thoughts and dreams come pellucid like the reflection of the summer skies on a placid river. I aim to write my thoughts that way: to achieve such clarity. These thoughts, my dreams reflected on pages as I allow the readers to grasp them like viewing the river and the skies on a clear summer day.
But sometimes, words are just ain’t enough. There are thoughts and dreams conceived that come in defined shapes, definite forms and rich colors. So I capture them in sketches. Such thoughts and dreams come alive on pads as my pen and pencil give them skin and the ink give them blood and the images from my mind come throbbing alive in sketches.
But then again, oftentimes, I am haunted by vivid dreams and thoughts that not my pen and the pencil nor the ink are enough to breath them life, to bring them the colors like the coquettish fishes flirting my mind with their exotic dance moves in the river where my mind often hovers. They demand to be born and inhabit the canvas, and only my brush strokes could give them soul, only the pallette could bring to life their hued reflections flickering in my imagination ~
Conspicuous in light and shadows.
This is the time of my life when I am fully in touched with my creative muse and the river of my mind is on its calmest state, where any minute movements are reflected that could stir ripples of dreams, and rapture of colors like the blossoms in springtime. The pages and the pads and the canvas are like the verdant fields where my dreams bloom. They are like the river in my mind where the fishes swim to the deeps in their coquettish dance moves that preludes to a million dreams.
The damselfly is within reach – I am taking time to appreciate his beauty as he hovers and I, motionless wishing the damselfly would soon alight in my palms.
Who says that dreams are black and white?
Let my scribbling,
And my brush strokes
“Seed” series# 2, 1998. Pen and Ink on paper
“Seed” series# 3, 1998. Pen and Ink on paper
“Seed” series# 4, 1998. Pen and Ink on paper
“Fish Of Mind” (Oil on canvas 30×38, By: Jeques B. Jamora, Oct. 2007)
“We depart to arrive, we leave to come home. 2005. Oil on canvas.
“Pedia”, 1998. Pencil on paper
“Fish of mind” study, 2005. 2-piece oil on canvas.
“Tamed” (the original), 2004. Oil on canvas
My apartment walls are becoming an exhibit space to hang my artworks
“Tamed”(enlarged replica) July, 2007 – This is the first painting(oil on canvas, 30×30) I completed here in Chicago.
“Nostalgia” (Oil on Canvas, 30×38, By: Jeques B. Jamora, Nov. 2007)
My living room serves as show room for my paintings
“A cut of life , 1 ~ there is some story in everything we see” 2007. Oil on canvas
“A cut of life , 2 ~ there is a cut of life in every piece of me. ” 2007. Oil on canvas
“Solitude”, 2007 – finding my solitude in Chicago. Oil on canvas, 24×30.
“Reflections” 2007 (Oil on canvas, 24×30, By: Jeques B. Jamora)
“Solitude” – anchored, 2005. Oil on canvas
“Nangita Ko Nemo”, 2007 (Oil on canvas, 20×24, By: Jeques B. Jamora)
My witty take on the animated film, Finding Nemo. “nemo” in Visayan/Ilonggo dialect means “You.
“Nangita Ko Nemo – Finding You”,
“Ginpangita Man Ko Nemo?”, 2007 (Oil on canvas, 20×24, By: Jeques B. Jamora)
My witty take on the animated film, Finding Nemo. “nemo” in Visayan/Ilonggo dialect means “You.
“Ginpangita man ko nemo? – Did you seach for me, too?”
“Love, ‘Fish,’ Hope” 2004, oil on canvas
“Childhood,” 1998, pencil on paper
“to the deeps(unfinished)” oil on canvas, 40×48(pending, nov, ‘07 to date) By: Jeques B. Jamora
“The secret garden” 2005, oil on canvas
“To the deeps(unfinished)” Oil on canvas, 40×48(pending, nov, ‘07 to date) By: Jeques B. Jamora
My earlier paintings displayed on the walls at home in the Philippines
There is no doubt now in my heart that what I’ve been through were essential in shaping me. I feel like a stone in a river molded by its currents, its rushing waters caress me like a passionate sculptor meticulously shaping me as I take form ~
God’s masterful hands leave imprints all over me.
Yes I’m taking form, for God molds me.
I’ve been drawing since I could remember. When I was a kid, I remember it was the most comforting thing for me to do alone. Everytime I visit my earliest memories, I would always see a child with a pencil and a paper drawing. I thought I was born to do arts and I’m naturally born with the gift.
But nobody really took notice of those earliest signs, nobody in the family took my gift seriously. I was left alone to find out for myself the reasons why I draw at such a young age and to understand that there’s such a thing as passion, that there is such a thing as a gift. It is not easy growing up feeling this itch inside you and not knowing how to cure or what to do with it. I feel the craving to feed my passion, I just don’t know how, no body taught me, I don’t have the resources and I didn’t really understood.
I was born left handed, but when my father forced me to become right handed, it was also a subtle way to supress my artistry. And so I grew up the convetional way, a normal kid but inside is an itch, a craving, my soul hungry for something that it took me years to find out.
Pencil on Paper, by Jeques B. Jamora, 1998
I continue to draw, sketch, and progressed to water colors in my own slow pace. I learned them myself as if they’re the most natural thing for me to do. The arts really didn’t leave me completely even if I was in a far away field of nursing ~ it was like being exiled in a territory not your own and your soul painfully longs for something you don’t really understand. The side spaces of my class notebooks are filled with sketches and they were instrumental for the most unexpected person to discover my gift and do something about it. He was not even my friend then, we were already 4th year college in Nursing. My closest friends knew that I draw, but it took years and for this one person that I didn’t even consider my friend to believe in what I do, to prod me to join a painting contest which I did, and to make me realize my potentials and with that, to him I am forever indebted.
I was a first timer in a painting contest, I was not really sure what I was doing but there was one voice in my head telling me I could paint – I could never forget Ronald – and that was enough to inspire me. I was 3rd place, not bad for a first timer, huh?
I thought it was just a beginners luck or something, that achievement wasn’t enough to convince me. I was just a 3rd placer anyway. But I didn’t know that that one-time thing could stir a rivalry that empowered me to fight a silent battle. The first placer from that contest(that’s his 3rd year win – unbeatable!) commented something about my work, and that I was not deserving. I was hurt in silence but I was challenged. And then there was another contest, which Ronald recommended me again to join, and I did. It was different this time, I became more competitive knowing that my rival was in that same contest. I was first place in “on the spot painting contest” category, while he won the “on the spot drawing contest” – I didn’t know we joined different categories but we were side by side during the awarding of prizes. I could sense a silent rivalry. At least now, I have proven my worth.
And then came the final battle, our school sponsored an inter-school poster making contest, with water color as medium and the only category. We both joined and the heat of the rivalry reached its peak. I was determined to win, but I was not sure how to do it. So I just painted my heart out. Our works was on display for 3 days before a decission was made for the winners. I viewed closely all the works, and study each against my piece and my rival’s. Days after, I received my treasured gold medal in a painting contest – I won first place. He got the bronze, a third placer, the spot I humbly took the first time I joined.
I won the silent battle.
My apartment is becoming the showroom for my paintings.
That was many years ago, I was just more than a child then. But that childish rivalry served as catalyst for me to take my gift seriously. If nobody does, then at least I should be and that is my obligation, my way of paying tribute to the true source of the gift: my creator and my God.
I didn’t stop. I continue to enrich myself, I am a self-taught artist. I remember when I arrived here, one of the first places I searched and visited was the Art Institute Of Chicago. I can’t stop my tears, I was crying watching all the artworks – now I understand what my soul is hungry for.
I started painting again, July 2007. And the first person I gave a painting many years after, is the person who unselfishly believe I could win a painting competition back in college – We are grown ups now, away from home. But I always remember that at one point in my life there was Ronald who convinced me I could do wonders with my gift.
“Fish Of Mind” Oil On Canvas 30×38, By: Jeques B. Jamora, Oct. 31, 2007. (The first painting I gave away here in Chicago to payback the first person who believed I can paint and made me join the first painting competition I joined and won).
Little by little, in my own slow pace I am feeding my hunger to cure my itch. Now more than ever, I am thankful I am a nurse, this profession I loathed at first for it took me away from my arts, brought me here and made me afford the materials I need to continue my self study.
Every now and then I visit that child that draw in his loneliness and pat him on his back to reassure him he would be fine. I look back to that childish rivalry, to that contests. I treasure the medal, the achievement of winning that silent battle, but more than all that, I think the experience empowered me more than the prize.
I feel good viewing my paintings as they transform my apartment to the place I was dreaming as a child.
For more of my paintings, please click links to MY PAINTING PAGES
This week the writers island promts us to write about being “Empowered” and “Rivalry” this is my contribution.
Please visit the island, click link below to navigate to the writers island:
Second Chance. Who could understand it better but I, the seed. Because ’tis when I am almost destroyed that I am about to grow. Here is how second chance is seen from where I lay, here’s how second chance means from the seed’s perspective.
I’m trapped down here in the dark walls of the earth.
Above me are thickened layers of hardened dirt.
I was once up there, I’m a child of the light.
The sun smiles, winds’ kisses, rains used to bath me.
But now I’m stuck, darkness enfolds me.
I’m thriving, dreaming. I am alone completely.
‘Tis my ineffable hope that’s left of me.
Would there’ll be someone up there to rescue me?
My thoughts of the light, my blissfull days brace me.
I’d transcend these adversities.
There’s a wonderful world for me to see.
I will escape the sadness that enslaves me.
I’ll live and not die, the morning awaits me.
I’ll gather my strength, my brave heart will free me.
I’m a seed destined to be a seasoned tree.
My courage is ingrained, ’tis deep within me.
(From my “Seed” series poem ~ Ingrained: Child Of The Light)
Seed #1, pen and ink on paper. By:Jeques B. Jamora, Nov. ’98
seed #2, pen and ink on paper. By: Jeques B. Jamora, Nov. ’98
seed #3, pen and ink on paper. By: Jeques B. Jamora, Nov. ’98
seed #4, pen and ink on paper. By: Jeques B. Jamora, Nov. ’98
I wish to grow into a lovely tree,
Where people could sit under my cool shade
And rest their weary minds, hearts and bodies.
I wish to grow into a healthy tree,
So I could bear fruits and feed people
I would nourish the hungry humanity.
I wish to grow into a sturdy tree;
People would build houses from my branches.
A shelter, a home, I would be glad to be.
I wish to grow into a seasoned tree,
So bridges and light posts will rise from me.
I would be your road, I would light your way.
But for now, I’m a seed. Don’t look down at me.
I maybe small, but the morn will change me.
I’m full of dreams, and life ahead of me.
I wish to grow into a mother tree.
Thousands of seeds would come alive from me.
Seeds metamorphosed to homes of love.
I will be your shelter, eternally.
(From my “Seed” series poem – “The Seed’s Wishes”)
For every spring time is another chance and the sunlight that shower us with kisses in the morning are constant reminders that there is a second chance ~ we just need to open our cores and let the sunshine in, and accept the bounty of the gifts of life.