October 2017 IBPC poll


Dear Babiluians,

Our shortlist of 8 poems follows this message, each poem nominated by a reader, each one vying for one of the 3 openings we have for the October 2017 IBPC competition.

Our poll gadget follows the poems. Vote for one poem only.

The poll will close Thursday October 5 at 10pm. 

The 3 top vote-getting poems will represent Babilu. 

Voting is open to you, who is reading this, to all and anyone who would like to read the poems and vote. If you are not now signed in, do so by clicking the link in the upper right hand corner of this page. If you have not registered yet, click that same link.


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.  


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 traveler'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.


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.


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'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


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.


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.


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.

October 2017 IBPC poll
  1. Vote for 1 poem10 votes
    1. Certified
    2. I am sorry you had to leave Reine
    3. Illumine the Shadow
    4. Jesus Couldn't Take the Heat
    5. Licking Milky Way Off My Fingers
    6. Mary M.
    7. Rain
    8. September


  • This is the latest version of "September." I don't know if you want to replace the old one or not.

    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.
  • Hi Don,

    You have the admin capabilities to edit the content. 

    You present a difficult puzzle, though, Part of your revision is a title change. In order to vote for your poem, readers need to vote for a poem called "September", as a poll cannot be altered.

    If you want, you or I can change the body of the poem, keeping the old title, "September", but then, when I would send it off to David, use the new title, "Moving Away".

  • Attached are the poll results.

    And we have a tie for 3rd between:
    Certified, by Gracy
    Illumine the Shadow, by Richard
    Licking Milky Way Off My Fingers, by Dan
    Moving Away, (formerly September), by Don

    So, the poems we know will be going for judging are:
    I am sorry you had to leave Reine, by me
    Mary M., by JIm

    I'll now put the 4 tied title into a randomizer, and the one it chooses will represent Babilu.

    Before the randomization, congrats to all. Great writing.
    IBPC Babilu Poll 1710.jpg
    863 x 469 - 38K
    IBPC Babilu Poll 1710.jpg
    863 x 469 - 38K
  • Don's Moving Away was selected by the random chooser, and will be among our 3 poems going to IBPC for judging!

    IBPC Babilu Poll Tie Breaker 1710.jpg
    679 x 315 - 53K
    Thanked by 1Gracy
  • Posts: 0
    Congrats to Russ, Jim and Don! Great poems!
    Best wishes to all,
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