I wish you well.
~ Jeques B. Jamora
I wish you well.
~ Jeques B. Jamora
Originally posted on Vigilante Publishing Group LLC:
February 25, 2014
Media Contact: E. Ekstrom
Vigilante Publishing Group LLC Welcomes Author Jeques Jamora
[Scottsdale, AZ.] Scottsdale based book publisher Vigilante Publishing Group LLC welcomes poet and artist Jeques Jamora as a new client from Evanston, Illinois. Mr. Jamora is a brilliant poet and extraordinary artist whose talent is showcased in his upcoming book A Traveler’s Soliloquies: An Anthology of Poems, Illustrated.
A Traveler’s Soliloquies takes you inside the mind of a Waif. This Anthology is the waif’s 10 years poetic self-talks, illustrated! The art pieces by the author are the visual form of the poems that recounts the memories of his genesis. These are his recorded self-dialogues as his mind hovers in the present, his caught in the moment thoughts and his vision of the future. A Traveler’s Soliloquies will be released in 2014.
Mr. Jamora’s love for poetry…
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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.
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.
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.
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
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 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.
“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.”
I unearthed you that winter,
And discovered in solstice
That I am your keeper.
You’re the incessant blaze
That burns inside me,
You’re my built-in hearth.
Like the fireplace,
My chamber is made of bricks
That guard your flame,
I am the candle keeper.
You need me to keep your light
I need you to warm me.
We await in hope
For the vernal equinox.
That even in the gray
Of frozen days,
Of the seemed endless blizzards ~
We bloom in gloom.
You’re the relentless flare
That lit the wintry alleys
Overtook my sanguinity.
I coat you,
Bearing frost bite
And the stings
I am in your keeping from inside,
I safeguard you
From the harsh world outside.
Your glowing amber
And my unwavering strides
Steer us forth.
I see us,
Welcoming 2013 . . . Embracing New Beginnings . . . Celebrating Life!
I am grateful for the chance I am given to see the world, and at 40, to see another greatest land in the world.
Ever since I enrolled in the school of life few years ago, traveling and seeing new places and lands, meeting people of different colors, embracing the cultures of every country, learning a little of their language and speaking them trying to sound like the local, awe-inspired by their heritage, dining on their tables; sampling their foods, breathing the air, living their lifestyle in few days and taking in everything as much as I could to take with me, to take with me home. I am enriched. Memories are forever, as long as we remember.
I wish you well.