re Upcoming June IBPC 2016

[Michael (MV)]

 
In lieu of posting more poems at present,

I recommend dedicating time workshopping the ones already posted,

in order to prep & arrange for 3 to be forwarded to represent in the June IBPC.


Here is the link to the thread @ Palaver: Upcoming June IBPC 2016: viewtopic.php?f=3&t=6273


However, workshop the poem(s) in its thread at the Writer's Block: viewforum.php?f=2


Thanks.


A safe & wonderful Memorial Weekend 2016 to every one



Michael (MV)


 
 
 
 
 
 

[meenas17]

1.Name:Meena.
2. e -mail address: meenas17@gmail.com
3. The poem is original.
4.It is unpublished.
5. I am not representing in the current IBPC
6.

The Umbilical Cord - Invisible.

Three hours - seems like minutes -
come to term, as an exhausted
mother and new-born child
rest on in a deep nap.

The lactation flow saturates
and the seeping milk wakes
Maitiri up to nurse. The half
asleep Veda seeks the nipple
to receive the nourishment
she needs from the suckling breast.

Invincible for the invisibility,
this cordate union encouraged by the Light,
continues unsevered after birth;
the undeniable joy shared
among atheists and believers,
as the miracle of life belies science.

[meenas17]

With the same credentials, I wish to place another poem of mine.

"Empty Vessels Make The Most Noise, Perfectly"


Nine out of ten speak highly of themselves,
think they are the fine gems
such a character is Udayappan.
who boasts about his wealth
that amounts to a total of a mere hundred thousand
elaborating his entrepreneurial skill in investing
fancies himself as the Warren Buffet of India
He talks of religion, karma and agamam with fervour,
He feels he is greater than Swami Vivekananda.
Just an old man nicknamed ottapanai,
who should be seen and not heard?

Meena

[FranktheFrank]

Name: Ieuan ap Hywel
2. e -mail address: Ieuanaphywel@aol.com
3. My poem is my original work
4.It is unpublished
5. I am not representing in the current IBPC
6. Below:

Jōmon Sugi

Before Abraham I was, men had already begun growing wheat,
near a stream of crystal clear water that that flowed constantly.

After Adam had been cast out, when man had: domesticated cattle,
improvised fire and smelted copper I was growing across the stream.

I preceded Mesopotamia, Indus Valley and Egyptian civilizations. I
met my life companion; we melded over the stream that ran between

us. We entwined and now are one for ever. We matured and outgrew
the others around us when Greece arose and declined before Rome.

We heard of Persia on the vine, macaques squawked - spilled the
beans, we outlasted the Aztec and Inca worlds, saw them dissolve

under Spanish incursions. Our girths increased, we were fed from
heaven and bathed always from our stream. We are worshipped by

some, in the Shinto form, men pray in us and through us, light
candles, clap hands for attention, marry beneath us, worship at our

feet. Deer and monkeys feed beneath us. We outlast the Cedars of Lebanon.
Yakusugi, we are fat with a girth of over fifty feet, we grow high and see

Mount Miyianoura across our island surrounded by our cousins
Cryptomeria Japonica at Yakushima near Kyushi, we live, we endure.

[FranktheFrank]

Decline and Despair

He cut the leads to the five gardening apparatuses:
the mowers, rakes and extension leads.
I repair the breaks and watch as he runs over the lead
and severs it. I pack up and spend the following
weekend cutting grass.

He cracks my elbow with a petrol can
he thinks I have stolen it they do look similar.
The neighbours watch through parted nets.

He turns the heating up on full, the walls lean out,
that doesn't bother him. He sleeps behind the couch,
I find his bedding there. The plumber resets the valves
and bleeds for air.

He takes the five day turkey carcass from the bin
and sets on the cutting board with carver ready
for my next visit.

He locks himself out, he remedies the problem,
throws a brick through the window of the door.
I pay the glazier fifty pounds to replace, they
tell me he wanted to box.

They change his carer without notice, the new one
is frosty, she does not appreciate his kisses. He
threatens her, the police are called. I know
he's joking, they know him now and sigh.

His consultant suggests day-care, they call me
after an hour. He thumps a Sister in the breast.
His punches are rock hard; poor Sister. They cut me
dead when I pick him up. No, he can't stay here the
manager tells me emphatically.

The neighbour calls me, he's called out the A.A. again,
to free his car. She puts them on the line. I explain his
licence has been revoked. The neighbour reports his
bemusement when they leave.

His pal, the fencing master, calls. . . he voice on the edge
hysteria. The fencing master's bride hides in the bedroom,
she can't abide the cursing, the violence of his voice, his
threats . I walk him home, soaked from the rain and upset.
I tuck him into bed, he sings a hymn remembered from his
childhood , I read a psalm, he's asleep when I kiss his forehead.

I miss a visit and he wanders, he reports his mother
on the roof. The police call me. My wife never hysterical
but her jaw set, She cries out,

It's too much for you. I assure her,

It's fine, I'm alright.

He wanders again, she refuses to wake me, he is
taken into care. Riots at the care home, he wanders
and pees in an old woman's room. It's not his fault,
he always turns left to the lavatory.

We got close that year, he hugs me before I leave,
says I am good to him; grateful for small acts of kindness.
He relates our family history, anecdotes of business
transactions, his craftiness, his triumphs and disasters.
He recounts a life of activity, of suffering and yet does
not complain.

With little education he has achieved much and has
a son who cares. Our roles reversed I wonder
how will it go with me when it's time.

[FranktheFrank]

Trousered Women

Reports of trousered women and girls working underground in mines. Harnessed like
animals, they dragged heavy carts of coal. In the coming days increasingly scandalous
details from the newly published Report of the Children’s Employment Commission
appeared in newspapers and periodicals across the country. The greatest scandal
was not the brutal work, which damaged women’s health, but revelations that they
worked topless alongside naked men . . .

Morning Chronicle May 1842


He cut his way through the three foot six seam following its undulations down through
the years. Seven ton per shift the owners call. He rarely met his bonus. He worked
with candle set in cap. Scoring the undercut six foot long, wedge the top and collapse

the wall. His mate broke up the coal, loaded into the truck. The weigher measured by
mensuration, the haulier drew away the cart passing the women at level two their
breasts shining with sweat as they pull carts by straddling the chains displaying their

cunnies through the slit in their breeches. His shift over he cadges a lift on the carts
along the five mile haul to the lift cage and ascended up to the light, to heaven, to
bird's song and clean pure air that cooled his lungs. He walked to the pub to consume

two pints of bitter then made his way back to wife and home. He soaked in a zinc bath
in front of a coal fire attended by his wife and daughter. He allowed them to wash the
dirt off his back, never mind the superstition of leaving one part unwashed. One day,

Sunday, devoted to worship, reading the Bible and Chapel. He had a day off once, he
had injured his thumb and took time off at the risk of losing his job. But Dai, his
fireman, said it was allowable bearing in mind his record. They caught a train to

Newport and visited the great covered market there. He remembered sitting at a café
and eating faggots with mash and peas. They drank small cups of coffee and he
wondered that people could dine so well every day in that great city. He often thought

about that day as he worked the seam, endless it seemed, but it brought him life and
riches and kept him out of the cold rain that swept the valley in winter, out of the
howling wind that killed so many on the land. His own Da dying at forty six years, his

mam two years later. On the odd occasion he allowed his thoughts to wonder at the
beauty of the women on level two and the perfection of their bodies glistening in the
faint flickering light. It was, he supposed, a sin, but then God had made them that
soft lovely way had He not.

He had fifteen years to go, if the dust didn't take him. They saved for that day to avoid
the workhouse. Their wealth was in the children and the children’s children, that was
their inheritance, to die in the arms of ones family. Sometimes when Dafydd was at the

end of the seam he would have a little weep, he had nightmares of the dark, alone,
entombed. Megan comforted him, understanding his despair. Ashamed to be so weak he
hid his fear and the tremors, ashamed of thinking too much of the women, but glad too

that they gave him joy. He wished in a way he could confess to a priest, was it a
weakness that they confessed not to their pastors. Then he would pray and Ieuan who
thought all religion a sin would say, Come on mun, don’t dwell on this misery, we’ll
drink three pints tonight.

And Dafydd, who believed all good things came from God, thanked Him for his mate Ieuan.

[FranktheFrank]

Michael, I have posted three above that I like, but I cannot decide which one should go forward. Would you kindly do the honours and select one, I have listed the required data for entry of my work to the IBPC, thank you.

Jumon Sugi is about a famous tree in Japan and may have limited interest.

Decline to Despair is about dementia in old age and may be considered depressing.

Trousered Women is about conditions in Wales in the 1840's and may have a limited interest in an international setting.

I just cannot choose and trust your judgement, same criteria applies to all three. Name, e-mail etc. etc.

[Michael (MV)]

 
1/ Hi Frank; 2/ Hi meenas17; et al:

I hoped my intial entry in this thread was simple & clear; I even provided a link to the June IBPC thread at Palaver; and I specified to workshop poems in their respective threads - and that's because there was much more posting of poems than workshopping.

None of the 3 poems Frank has posted in this thread have received a single workshopping and/or commentary.

The usual protocol/netiquette is for each poem you post, read, comment/workshop on at least 3.

1/ Frank, ASAP please, select one; and then I hope to, and hopefully others, too, will workshop that poem in the next 2 days.
After you select one, re-read it for spelling & grammar, and any revision(s).
After it is workshopped and you have made revisions, then post that poem along with the vitals in the appropriate thread at Palaver:

Upcoming June IBPC 2016 : viewtopic.php?f=3&t=6273

Even in the event it does not receive any workshop by Monday June 6th, then please procede on to comlete that step at Palaver.

Thanks Frank.


2/ meenas17, in an IBPC monthly, a poet can only represent for one board, with one poem. One poem per poet per monthly

Do you want a poem of yours to represent for the Writer's Block? and if so, with One?

^^ If so, then ASAP post that one poem along with the vitals in the appropriate thread at Palaver:

Upcoming June IBPC 2016 : viewtopic.php?f=3&t=6273

Thanks, meenas17


Sincerely,

Michael (MV)