Nominations for poems posted in May

Nominations for poems posted in May

Joined: May 3rd, 2006, 5:58 am

May 2nd, 2018, 3:00 pm #1

Please nominate your favourite poems in this thread
Poets note - if you do not want your poem chosen for the IBPC, please leave a note

For more IBPC information please read the guidelines

Happy May!

Joined: August 21st, 2017, 10:33 am

May 5th, 2018, 9:43 pm #2

Which poems did you send for April?

Joined: June 7th, 2015, 6:45 pm

May 8th, 2018, 5:04 am #3

Nominated by Bob Bradshaw
in the Beach 13 Apr 2018 16:59 #18

Fred and Joe Automobile Rescue Repairmen

His voice percolates through from
the dining room, reflects impatience,
his frustration. I try to focus
on my newspaper. He cries again
to himself, 'I can't do it.'

I place my copy of De Courant down
and call out,
"What's the matter, Oscar?"
'I can't do it Grandpa.' His voice weary.
"Come to Grandpa Oscar."
A third person voice
to pander for his age.

He toddles in with his breakdown 
lorry, a Mini-Matchbox series 
injection-moulding toy. He can't
wrap the winch-cable around the car.

I show him how, "Look, wrap
the hook around then tie
as a bight." His fingers twitch,
he can't wait. I carry on with my lesson.
"Okay Fred, wind him up."
'Okay Joe, coming up.'
Oma enjoys as she listens in.

He toddles back to the dining room,
clutching the vehicles.
All I hear for the rest of that day is:
"Okay Fred, wind him up."
'Okay Joe, coming up.'

Months later my son listens
in as I play repairman with
my four year old grandson,
"Oh Dad, that's where he gets
Fred and Joe from!"

by Ieuan ap Hywel

Joined: June 20th, 2007, 3:33 am

May 11th, 2018, 10:57 pm #4


by Moll,  and Sherry 🌞🌞🌞🌞

Triolet on a Line by Sherry O’Keefe
You can surface anytime you want,
sweet darling tulip, come on up!
You first communicant, you debutante,
you can surface anytime you want.
If I call you shy, or cunning, or nonchalant
I miss the lack of forethought in your make-up.
You can surface anytime you want
Sweet darling tulip, come on up!
“You can surface any time you want” is the last line of O’Keefe’s “Between my Back Porch and Sheffield’s Pond,” p.30, in her collection _Crac
Last edited by Osel on May 11th, 2018, 10:59 pm, edited 2 times in total.

Joined: June 20th, 2007, 3:33 am

May 11th, 2018, 10:58 pm #5

“i so adore “i mss rhe lack of forethought.


Joined: May 5th, 2006, 6:47 pm

May 19th, 2018, 7:36 am #6

Did you find the submissions? They’re at the end of the April Nominations topic. We sent the following:

la femme sans abri, by Mar Hemme
The Bad Deer, by Chris Potter
A Brief History of Rain, by Toni

Jude used “likes” to narrow the field. She and Jim Z made the final choices. 

PLEASE NOTE: There were so many good poems nominated in April that we’d like to give more of them a chance at IBPC. If one of your poems was nominated in April, but not sent to IBPC, and you would like it considered for May, please post the current version of the poem in this (May) Nominations thread. 

Joined: June 20th, 2007, 3:33 am

Yesterday, 11:20 am #7

Mar’s nomination of mine

Mouse in April’s Winter (2018)

The tremulous force in leaf litter, little claw feet.
Deathless brown oak leaves, the iris-thatched gulch,
a mycelium feast, underfoot— Creek sway, up-swollen.

Of all the places I have stepped this winter, Make my way 
up Cedarvale ravine to your Valleyview rooms a force—
Rooms diminished to one room, to a room at Grace, your body‘s 

turn a turn you cannot untwist from, unless given the help 
you never wanted—— Medically assisted dying 
is snatched away, we are reduced to medicating so you will not 

go lost, go mad, losing the mind you feel yourself losing, 
as you cry, How do I do this? Help me. Oh, no, oh no. 
You call me by your sisters’ names, as one person, 

and want me to get a message to Alison. I will. 
Opening your mouth like a bird, waiting, I place 
on your ruined tongue sections of mandarin, for thirst. 

You say, we need “wisdom”, when i ask what I can do 
for you. The elephant has given up self-portraiture, 
all such contrived, imposed ideas, modesty, slanting lines. 

The chain on its foot is the charm’s tinkle in a windless roar. 
The elephant hears the merest footsteps of a mouse, 
I read, at home, from The People’s Almanac. 

And this re-ignites me.
A red fox trips lightly down Relmar Gardens hill, 
as if to greet me returning from your empty apartment, 

sun setting, white sky, soon to visit you again, at Grace
with shirts you can not pull off. The feel of the crocheted clip 
on my grandmother's fox stole catches in my throat, just

for a second— then the fox is passing me, we two, 
passing one another with ease— It carries in the satchel 
of its mouth softly unhinged, a rounded spattering 

of white and grey, that image a zoom, I have camera eyes— ! 
could swear I’m becoming cyborg, or simply, Are there 
new softwares being inserted into the grey in my head? 

I have detected a delicate mechanics that skitters in place, 
can clearly see now the feathery smear of brown blood, 
and the strangest suggestion of a newborn kit, — 

almost jubilation, for the fox carries the unknown 
bird, with such safety, such care, then slips with it beneath 
a solid black fence, to a house in a house, 

and I can zoom— to the mouse’s glimmer of a past, glinting 
wires, the same damp -from a shuddering sleep- wafer 
as always, that could expertly, skillfully 

slip through a crack between bones of the house 
and the cage’s floor.