January 2018 IBPC nominations

Dear Babiluians, 

Let's begin our IBPC nomination process for January 2018. 

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 work-shopping. 

Here is the IBPC web site: InterBoard Poetry Community. As I write, Michael Larrain 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, and December 30th might make sense with so many holidays around. So we'll need to take care of our nomination process earlier, maybe later, depending.




  • edited December 2017 Posts: 672
    I am nominating Gracy's poem Certified:

    by Gracy 

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

    Regression to an earlier time
    of diapers, bibs, drool, 
    night terrors.
    Doctors say you’re chancy, 
    might set the house afire, 
    slash me with the kitchen knife.

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

    There’s a void in our home, 
    -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
  • I am nominating Don's poem Funeral Plans:

    by Don

    I was 
    sitting on the bench
    outside the library
    waiting for a cab
    and breathing shallow.
    She died. She died.
    I still see her 
    asking for more
    creamer in her coffee,
    never satisfied.
    Then God told me to relax
    God told me to relax!
    I didn't need to
    say goodbye. She
    wouldn't listen anyway.
    But God told me:

  • I am nominating JJ's poem Homeless:

    by JJ


    The tiny mouse that lived inside
    my dry stone wall is petrified.
    Her body couldn't bear the chill
    and there she lies forever still,
    inside my dry stone wall.

    The pygmy shrew that found a heap
    of brittle leaves fell sound asleep.
    The snuffling mite consumed his last
    then snuggled down to face his fast
    inside the heap of leaves.

    The jenny wren that settled in
    the ivy quilt is plume and skin.
    Her shivering frame has acquiesced
    because she hadn't built a nest
    inside the ivy quilt.

    The feral cat that prowls around
    my broken fence slips on the ground.
    The frozen earth defies his claw
    and winter's freeze has robbed his store
    around my broken fence.

    Now I sit in my cosy house
    to think about the tiny mouse,
    the shrew, the wren and feral cat
    then place some balls of grain and fat
    outside my cosy house.

  • I am nominating Richard's poem Moonlight Medallion:

    by Richard

    At her feet
    fall leaves,
    like the rest of her days
    in the convent,
    lie ready
    to concede death’s

    Pine needles,
    like glass in the moonlight,
    falling in front of the screen
    in a winter’s weave,
    puncture her rhythms.
    Her life’s tedium,
    the constant standing by,
    though a dedicated wife
    of the Lord
    bears no relief. 
    She’s a sentinel over
    breathing ruins. 

    Her thoughts graze a full moon,
    linger with each meager insight;
    past visión she imagines lunar dust. 
    The pale crystal sphere
    beyond this sky,
    beyond any life
    gone before or to come,
    an insistent medallion,
    on loan,
    around infinity’s neck.

  • I am nominating Jim's poem The Riff:

    by Jim

    —for Jerry G.

    “Come here, long-haired gadjo,
    it will only cost you ten dollars. 
    Small price to know everything 
    about your future. You’re shaking; 
    take off your glasses and lean back, 
    give me your hand so I can riff over your life. 
    You’re surprised I know you’re a guitar player. 

    "A Romany drabarno sees everything; even the fact 
    your lifeline ends on the missing finger. Don’t fret, 
    you’ll live long enough to be immortal in their minds. 
    Who are they? I see booking agents, your ex, 
    all grateful long after you’re dead.”

  • I am nominating Kenny's poem Squirrelly Thoughts:

    by Kenny

    I watch as the half-loaf of french bread climbs the tree across the street and think to myself why do they do it, how do they do it, how do they survive the winter up in trees like that. I know the radiation from the Icarus incident millions of light-years hence washes over us all like wind over waves of golden grain, like purple mountains majesty above breaded planes. I know there are worse things than winter, there are hurricanes, there are exploding suns that blanket entire quadrants of the galaxies with planet-sterilizing radiation. I think of mankind’s place in the universe and how fragile, how isolated, how alone we are. The synapses of my brain fire in unison perhaps in synchronicity with flowing particles or perhaps in spite of them as the squirrel drops the bread and it falls under the influence of gravity with a muted thud to the ground.

  • I am nominating Alex' poem The Would Be Seductress:

    by Alex

    She stands behind him without
    making a sound and acts
    like she was his intimate muse.

    He turns to look at her. She entices
    him with one leg up to manhandle
    her but he's not in mood.

    His minuscule volume of Latin
    blood simmers but it's remote from
    an Ole Torero!

    Besides, he prefers brunettes with
    palm-size breasts. Not the frond type.
    She doesn't qualify.

    Her right hand raised straight up
    above her shoulder
    waives at him in a frozen stanza.

    He chuckles at her brazen lewdness.
    She's stark naked and doesn't know
    she's not his type.

    Nor does she smile.
    Her blank expressionless face
    has a wooden appearance.

    She doesn't even wear
    a Mona Lisa smile.
    He garbles to himself

    he'd never sleep with her.
    She looks just fine on top
    of the glass shelf.

  • Rus - I would prefer "The Haunting of Raskolnikov,"

    After my knock, her eye
    squints through the crack.
    My voice, already unsure,
    is near paralysis.

    Tremors pulse through my body.
    The old lady stares at me,
    I read mockery there.
    “So pale batuchka," she says,
    "like a freshly laundered sheet.”

    Hand that held the hatchet,
    mind that held the hand,
    heart that fell to dark.

    The streets are filled with eyes
    that tell how it will end for me.
    Every word, every sound
    has eyes. Not a single nod,
    not one child down the street
    careening with youth,
    can be released from
    the deed’s web, stretching
    the length my thoughts travel.

    Head down, eyes slowly peer
    to either side, scanning threats
    passing by, through me,
    through the pallid skin, taut, hungry,
    over bones I can’t feel as mine.
    Panic will be strewn over this day,
    and every day of mine to come.

    The wáter would end it, yes, the wáter; 
    Ripples, what I will become is
    a ripple. I will not carry this further.

    Don’t look up, temples throb…throb.
    I can’t focus on the sky,
    growls of the landlady’s dog
    stalk and hound my every move.

    There is only a silent plunge,
    nothing more at the last.

    Why can’t I lose these details,
    the shaky armed impulse
    over the slight figure,
    the source of so much blood,
    so much blood.

    The river waits, Sonia waits,
    I can’t face her, I will wait,
    not here…beyond all this;

    hand that held the hatchet,
    mind that held the hand,
    heart that fell to dark.
  • Rus - I have  a Spanish keyboard - hence the inappropriate accent marks on this. RC
    Thanked by 1Rus Bowden
  • Thanks for the nod
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