October 2017 IBPC entries


Here are our 3 entries in the October 2017 IBPC competition:

Congrats to Jim & Don! My poem is in terrific company.


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 pensive 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.


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.


by Don

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.

Thanked by 1Gracy


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