October 2017 IBPC nominations

Dear Babiluians, 

Let's begin our IBPC nomination process for October 2017. 

Please place links to the poems you are nominating in this thread. Feel free to nominate your own. We can send up to three for judging. You may nominate any poem that has ever been posted here or at the old site for workshopping. 

Here is the IBPC web site: InterBoard Poetry Community. As I write, Tim Mayo is our esteemed judge. 

Only one poem per poet can go to IBPC in any given month from all boards. Poems that go for judging cannot have been published. 

When we know which nominated poems are eligible to go to IBPC, if more than three, we will have an open poll to decide on our entries. Generally, the last or first day of the month is as late as it should get before we put a poll up. So we'll need to take care of our nomination process by then.


Thanked by 1Gracy


  • Rus - I'll nom my "Illumine the Shadow"

    Illumine the Shadow

     edited September 17 in Poems Flag

    Nothing fits, only anger works.
    But, then, there is you,
    new planets in your eyes
    and a way of walking
    that keeps demons down.
    Your voice comes alive
    with a newness
    only fresh dreams hold.

    I want you,
    I want you now,
    I want you in the chorus of this song,
    I want you in the middle 
    of this long midnight.
    I want you before I fall.
    I want you out in front,
    where your back curves
    to wonder,
    where nothing intrudes.

    As I reach for your inventions,
    I want you to stand with me
    and wash with our senses
    new territories;
    our embraces don’t solve
    the darkness around us,
    but there is light within you,

    shine me through,
    shine me through.

    Thanked by 1Rus Bowden
  • edited September 2017 Posts: 672
    I am nominating Gracy's Certified 

    by Gracy

    you drifted into a Nomen nescio
    sphere of the mind.
    Undefined space packed 
    with psychedelic images, 
    strange babble,
    tragicomic paradoxes.

    Regression to an earlier time
    of diapers, bibs, drool, 
    goodies and night terrors.
    Doctors say you’re chancy, 
    might set the house afire, 
    slash me with the kitchen knife.
    Me? You? 
    Not so.

    When I whispered -Till tomorrow, honey, 
    tears welled in my eyes: 
    your mortifying -G’night, Mother 
    stabbed at my heart.
    Wayward, outsize babe, 
    snatched from my arms…

    There’s a void in our home, 
    a -What now?
    Twenty married years, 
    so ephemeral, 
    a fleeting presence by my side.
    Must I reinvent myself?

    Our cat dusts 
    book-lined corridors
    with her Siamese fur, 
    ponders ‘Don Quixote’ yearningly, 
    then whiskers your pillows, 
    sleeps under them.

    She and I need our zany, 
    quixotic cavalier, 
    even if you've been…

    Note: Nomen nescio: No name, Lt.  

    Thanked by 1Gracy
  • Gracy has nominated my poem, I am sorry you had to leave Reine

    by Rus

    You could not stay with me, a middle-aged
    woman of the fjord, who from birth has never left
    her hamlet, living here on a shore at the base
    of this jagged new mountain, where fresh clouds are not stroked up,
    but come and go, where stars, the moon, and snow counter
    winter noon when the thousands, like you, have come and gone–
    to a world where imaginary replicas of my psyche get studied

    in cozy jet-set universities. You cannot see me now so far away
    from you. And I would not enter your red-bottomed oil.
    A chasm’s mantra wall of molten marble would have come
    between me and my focus. Nor could seafarers coax
    me into their crafts, with bottoms only the painted-on lipstick red
    of waiting souls and bodies–how ships and art take on
    their captains’ fantasies, cool vessels that calmly fall off the far

    edge of the earth and its realities each day.
    Here in the great North, the world funnels up, small enough
    for any traveller’s vision to fit, and like fluid brick all fit
    together. So I would not go into Reine for the proceedings
    when my mother died. My red lava feet would have chilled
    to pipegray. My steps would have become watery, then airy with
    a summer’s skyblue, my head following ghosts through openings

    in clouds. My shoes would be like yours, permanently separated
    from the blood. Look at them. You cannot have your molten feet back:
    how you look for the crescent moon, the way you think it chases–
    then waits on–some circling midnight sun for light. I remain here
    and real, not art nor a paragraph like you seem to want to be.
    Ask yourself how far away must a midnight sun be to leave the crescent
    on the sky. It is not on the horizon. We will never get there.

    Thanked by 1Gracy
  • I am nominating Alex' Jesus Couldn't Take the Heat 

    by Alex 

    No matter what angle I turned him
    his stare always came straight back at me.
    He wore the traditional garb of the century
    but too colorful for my taste.

    It's not like he was the son of a rich man.
    His facial characteristics were too refined
    for being the son of a carpenter.
    So were his fingers.

    He had that LGBT look. You know.
    Even though historically, there never were
    any misreferences to his gender.

    During his last dinner he looked as effeminate
    as next to him sat his unrecognized wife.

    But this has nothing to do with the small
    triangular hole that appeared next
    to his middle finger.

    It expanded with time
    according to Einstein's spatial theories.
    The resulting aperture was probably due
    to many microwave cycles.

    Not to his expanding girth and despite
    his divinity the plate became unusable
    and had to be thrown away unless the hole
    was a hint of the mystery of his ascension. 

  • I am nominating Dan's Licking Milky Way Off My Fingers

    by Dan

    I'd like to reach my hand out 
    through sand and time 
    and cyberspace and molten rock 
    and aloneness and heaven's 
    little closed curtain lambs 
    and tell everyone who ever breathed
    that the blood in my veins is moving

  • I am nominating Jim's Mary M.

    by Jim

    You washed my feet with tears, 
    wiped them dry with soft cries 
    and dark tresses flowing to the ground.

    I could smell the mystery of myrrh 
    rising from your robe. Who could find 
    you a whore? You listened, eyes wet,
    to my tortured talk in your tent,
    cooled my brow from the bowl 
    you washed your breasts in.

    Now I eat meat with my enemies,
    and they scorn your lying in the dust 
    with anonymous men and me.

  • Gracy is nominating Kenny's Rain

    by Kenny

    Rain rained down from tawny clouds
    upon the reign of kings, upon the reins 
    in my hands slickering them away
    setting the horse a-gallop, my confidence 
    slipping away blotted inkblots of sustained 
    desire which had fed me for ages untold.
    Ancient medieval ages, bronze and stone 
    life advancing step by step across savannas
    fighting the thornbush, fighting candelabra 
    trees. Struggling through elephant grass 
    volcanic sand stiffing bogs and marshes, 
    sinking and rising frozen tundra from ice. 

    Prevalence prevailing dominance domineering 
    shortsightedness of the blind watchmaker 
    leading time immemorial through the fog
    through the dark night, holding dominion 
    over all lands, over all rains, over all time.

    Thanked by 1Gracy
  • I am nominating Don's September

    by Don

    When life is temporary
    you begin throwing things out,
    the meta-static things 
    whose worth dissolves.

    The woman
    passes me on the street
    with a pleasant look
    and I will never meet her.
    All those pleasant
    women are meta-stats
    in my time.

  • This is the latest version of "September." Could you consider this instead of the original?

    Moving Away

    When life is temporary
    you begin throwing things out,
    the meta-static things
    whose worth dissolves.
    I toss the woman
    who passes me on the street
    with a pleasant look
    I will never meet:
    a meta-stat to me.
    I toss the eyefulls,
    transitory globes
    of what we name light.
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