Upcoming October IBPC 2019:
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Upcoming October IBPC 2019:
Voice your recommendation(s) here, and
Please let us know ASAP if you are not going to be available to represent the Writer's Block -
then we will know not to consider your poems further for this month's IBPC.
I/we will be looking for consensus - in keeping with a communal workshop environment
Which 1-3 would we like to see represent the Writer's Block in the finals?
After the 3 are selected, then will each author post - in this thread - the poem as the poet would like it forwarded,
and ALL the needed info/statements
Ideally, the only poems that really need to appear here are the final 3, when announced, hopefully by the 1st of the month, if not sooner
^^ the intent is organizational - if poems appear here before the selection of the final 3, then there is a congestion -
Until the final 3 are announced, please maintain poems & workshopping to the Workshop Forum. Thanks.
************
any newcomers or returnees this month, Welcome!
and here is a home link to the IBPC rules: http://ibpc.webdelsol.com/rules
In this thread, from the poems posted in the workshop forum during the course of the month, recommend/nominate by title & author.
Nominated poets, please acknowledge the nomination here in this thread.
Please reply by accepting or declining the nomination - in this thread.
Please note & observe: This is not a workshopping thread.
In this thread, poems that are ultimately selected to represent the Block are then posted here
as the author would like for the poem to be forwarded
along with all IBPC required info.
When the 1-3 poems are decided upon, and permission granted by each author of the selected poems,
along with all the info needed by each author:
1/Your name
2/e-mail address
3/statement that the poem is your original
4/and unpublished work
5/and that you don't have a poem committed to represent another board in the current IBPC. One poet one poem one board
for each monthly,
6/and the poem as you would like it forwarded to the finals.
^^ All of the above is the usual needed info as part of the process.
I will then forward the 1-3 to the IBPC finals.
Thanks
Michael (MV)
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Re: Upcoming October IBPC 2019:
I nominate Ken’s “The Religion of Cats”, Siva’s “The Courtyard of the Big House...”, and Billy’s “Trees of Winter”.
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Re: Upcoming October IBPC 2019:
I nominate Bobs Funeral.
Second on Trees and Big House
I accept for my poem if selected.
Second on Trees and Big House
I accept for my poem if selected.
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Re: Upcoming October IBPC 2019:
Just in case...
1/Bob Bradshaw
2/bobbybradshw@yahoo.com
3/the poem is my original
4/and unpublished work
5/and that I haven't a poem committed to represent another board in the current IBPC.
My Funeral
My life savings will leave
just enough cash for fireworks--
something to celebrate my passing.
Otherwise, who will come
other than my bookie? His last chance
to rifle through my open casket for change?
Or maybe the heavy footsteps
of my ex? Her last chance to soil
my reputation?
Let everyone shake their heads
as the pastor recites by rote
from worn notes.
How I was honest, a loving father,
a faithful husband…No wonder
I'll be sporting a smug smile,
like a man with a winning lottery ticket
in his hip pocket. Won't it be obvious
there's been a mistake,
that I shouldn't be there?
That clearly they have
the wrong man?
1/Bob Bradshaw
2/bobbybradshw@yahoo.com
3/the poem is my original
4/and unpublished work
5/and that I haven't a poem committed to represent another board in the current IBPC.
My Funeral
My life savings will leave
just enough cash for fireworks--
something to celebrate my passing.
Otherwise, who will come
other than my bookie? His last chance
to rifle through my open casket for change?
Or maybe the heavy footsteps
of my ex? Her last chance to soil
my reputation?
Let everyone shake their heads
as the pastor recites by rote
from worn notes.
How I was honest, a loving father,
a faithful husband…No wonder
I'll be sporting a smug smile,
like a man with a winning lottery ticket
in his hip pocket. Won't it be obvious
there's been a mistake,
that I shouldn't be there?
That clearly they have
the wrong man?
Re: Upcoming October IBPC 2019:
Sorry, I'm not able to accept nom.
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- Joined: 01 Jun 2008, 09:17
Re: Upcoming October IBPC 2019:
Billy and Siva both declined....
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- Joined: 18 Apr 2005, 04:57
Re: Upcoming October IBPC 2019:
I 2nd "My Funeral" by Bob Bradshaw; and as of now, Bob's poem will be one of the three going to the finals to represent the WB in this October IBPC 2019.
We still need 2 more.
I would have 2nd Billy's "Trees of Winter"
I will try to read the board, probably a poem by Kenneth.
Kenneth, do you have a preference of one of your poems. Thanks.
I will update probably tomorrow, if not later today,
Michael (MV)
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- Joined: 18 Apr 2005, 04:57
Re: Upcoming October IBPC 2019:
Actually, reading back to move forward, I recall
& nominate Kenneth's Dante's Outer Circles
viewtopic.php?f=2&t=7622
Michael (MV)
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- Joined: 01 Jun 2008, 09:17
Re: Upcoming October IBPC 2019:
I accept Michael. Thanks
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- Posts: 1619
- Joined: 01 Jun 2008, 09:17
Re: Upcoming October IBPC 2019:
Dante's Outer Circles
It was the tinkling of cups
which disturbed you: sugar
and blackness, a spoon
for the madness.
Sometimes love looks like
getting your partner's coffee right.
I sucked at so many other things.
That September I wanted
to bring in the Devil's Ivy,
make cuttings for new rooting.
You had painstakingly trained
each vine to climb your rocker
and we joked about you overcome
by its bright green death-grip.
You told me it would die
if we put in on your night table,
and I didn't pick up on it when
your gaze held mine more than
a casual moment too long.
The surviving flog themselves.
There is a curse that allows
the memory to disgorge
every thoughtless act, each
unkind word ever visited upon
the dignity of the departed.
My original unpublished poem. I'm not representing another forum. The poem is unpublished.
ashworthken@yahoo.com
It was the tinkling of cups
which disturbed you: sugar
and blackness, a spoon
for the madness.
Sometimes love looks like
getting your partner's coffee right.
I sucked at so many other things.
That September I wanted
to bring in the Devil's Ivy,
make cuttings for new rooting.
You had painstakingly trained
each vine to climb your rocker
and we joked about you overcome
by its bright green death-grip.
You told me it would die
if we put in on your night table,
and I didn't pick up on it when
your gaze held mine more than
a casual moment too long.
The surviving flog themselves.
There is a curse that allows
the memory to disgorge
every thoughtless act, each
unkind word ever visited upon
the dignity of the departed.
My original unpublished poem. I'm not representing another forum. The poem is unpublished.
ashworthken@yahoo.com
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- Joined: 03 Jun 2016, 21:03
Re: Upcoming October IBPC 2019:
I accept. Thanks, Michael and Kenneth
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- Joined: 18 Apr 2005, 04:57
Update Oct 3rf re Upcoming October IBPC 2019:
Thanks, Bob; Thanks Kenneth,
Good Luck to you both in the finals.
We can contend 3. Will there be a 3rd to represent the Writer's Block?
I see maybe one by Frank or Eira.
Other voices ,please
Thanks
Michael (MV)
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- Joined: 01 Jun 2008, 09:17
Re: Upcoming October IBPC 2019:
Mistaken identity. Eira
Re: Upcoming October IBPC 2019:
Thanks Kenneth
Mistaken Identity
I pause to check familiar waves of salt
and pepper tucked inside your collar, turned
against the biting easterlies' assault.
A flurry of magnolia leaves is churned
around your wispy frame and I'm enticed
to delve into nostalgic reveries:
Close-knit; our weekly jaunts were fun and spiced
with tea and cakes. Then age sneaked up, disease
besieged your mind and slowly roles reversed.
Pink roses brush sweet lilies wreathed on oak.
As grief cascaded, I became immersed
beneath until buoyed up by kindly folk.
I shiver when you turn, revealing just
a shadow of the face I've reminisced;
my vision drifts away upon a gust
of autumn's breath - a phantom turns to mist
Eira Needham
presentideaseira@hotmail.com
This is my original unpublished work
I'm not representing another board
Mistaken Identity
I pause to check familiar waves of salt
and pepper tucked inside your collar, turned
against the biting easterlies' assault.
A flurry of magnolia leaves is churned
around your wispy frame and I'm enticed
to delve into nostalgic reveries:
Close-knit; our weekly jaunts were fun and spiced
with tea and cakes. Then age sneaked up, disease
besieged your mind and slowly roles reversed.
Pink roses brush sweet lilies wreathed on oak.
As grief cascaded, I became immersed
beneath until buoyed up by kindly folk.
I shiver when you turn, revealing just
a shadow of the face I've reminisced;
my vision drifts away upon a gust
of autumn's breath - a phantom turns to mist
Eira Needham
presentideaseira@hotmail.com
This is my original unpublished work
I'm not representing another board
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- Joined: 01 Jun 2008, 09:17
Re: Upcoming October IBPC 2019:
Waiting on final confirmation these were sent
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- Joined: 18 Apr 2005, 04:57
Re: Upcoming October IBPC 2019:
Thanks Eira
for completing our allowed quota of 3 entries - Good Luck in the finals
Yes, our 3 have been forwarded
A good week to all
Michael (MV)
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- Joined: 14 May 2011, 20:30
Re: Upcoming October IBPC 2019:
Michael
Maybe next month, 'The Big House ' can go. I have finished working on it. If you have any workshop options,you may suggest.
Siva
Maybe next month, 'The Big House ' can go. I have finished working on it. If you have any workshop options,you may suggest.
Siva
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- Joined: 14 May 2011, 20:30
Re: Upcoming October IBPC 2019:
The 'Big House at Mambalam',is my own original poem;I am not representing any other Board and it has not been published elsewhere. My mail id is sivakamivelliangiri@gmail.com
The Big House at Mambalam
The cattle left in four wheelers from Pondicherry,
and came to T-Nagar in Mambalam
straight to their sheds behind the house
where partitions were made for cows and buffaloes
They settled down, their tails wagged off flies.
The clay pot soon filled up with kitchen waste;
the uncooked, the peels and rice-washed water,
all for the fodder trough.
Daughter-in-law number one did puja;
she took Arthi with camphor and incense
and worshipped the behind where the tail started
the dung place—goddess Lakshmi resides there—
she loved to circumambulate, feed it hummingbird-tree leaves.
The dung used to make gobar gas
reached the kitchen through PVC pipes.
The harvest festival Pongal
celebrated for worshipping cows, buffaloes and goats;
cattle with newly-painted horns in vibrant colours
wearing huge Hare Krishna beads and mock-silver anklets
were made to circumambulate the wood-fired brick stove
freshly-harvested rice boiled in jaggery garnished
with cashew nuts and ghee brimmed-over as prasad.
Respected and pampered, the first offering
was for the cows.
Before the festival, cow dung was lumped as Pillayars
every dawn at the front doorsteps
and crowned with yellow flowers.
The courtyard was prepared for the festival,
topography marked with pointers in strategic places,
the hierarchy of daughters-in-law vied with the daughter
of the house to draw the kolam, a rice flour artwork
with dots and loops, depicting the Sun Lord’s chariot.
Grandma and little uncle had four chicken coops
for raising broiler chickens. When floods came,
the chickens drowned
but the cattle were led to a higher plain.
Servants and vendors dared walk in only through the side gate.
The long queue was for buying thick buttermilk.
Drumstick trees, mangoes, giant limes, guavas,
sapota, were grown at the back of the compound.
Night jasmines, ixora, wax flower, oleander, were planted
for the gods. We did not have to purchase flowers.
A few furlongs away, Grandma had a farm
where the well was always full. Beans and gourds
intertwined and every two or three days, we plucked greens
and vegetables. I tagged along with her to the family farm.
Inside the house was an inner courtyard where uncles sat
with hand-woven thread towels wrapped around their waists
while their wives rubbed gingelly oil on their bodies
for the ritual oil bath. I vowed never to get married
if this was one of a wife’s duties, little realizing they enjoyed it.
Now the big house is demolished, the family farm levelled.
Concrete flats tower, and the well is full no more.
The Big House at Mambalam
The cattle left in four wheelers from Pondicherry,
and came to T-Nagar in Mambalam
straight to their sheds behind the house
where partitions were made for cows and buffaloes
They settled down, their tails wagged off flies.
The clay pot soon filled up with kitchen waste;
the uncooked, the peels and rice-washed water,
all for the fodder trough.
Daughter-in-law number one did puja;
she took Arthi with camphor and incense
and worshipped the behind where the tail started
the dung place—goddess Lakshmi resides there—
she loved to circumambulate, feed it hummingbird-tree leaves.
The dung used to make gobar gas
reached the kitchen through PVC pipes.
The harvest festival Pongal
celebrated for worshipping cows, buffaloes and goats;
cattle with newly-painted horns in vibrant colours
wearing huge Hare Krishna beads and mock-silver anklets
were made to circumambulate the wood-fired brick stove
freshly-harvested rice boiled in jaggery garnished
with cashew nuts and ghee brimmed-over as prasad.
Respected and pampered, the first offering
was for the cows.
Before the festival, cow dung was lumped as Pillayars
every dawn at the front doorsteps
and crowned with yellow flowers.
The courtyard was prepared for the festival,
topography marked with pointers in strategic places,
the hierarchy of daughters-in-law vied with the daughter
of the house to draw the kolam, a rice flour artwork
with dots and loops, depicting the Sun Lord’s chariot.
Grandma and little uncle had four chicken coops
for raising broiler chickens. When floods came,
the chickens drowned
but the cattle were led to a higher plain.
Servants and vendors dared walk in only through the side gate.
The long queue was for buying thick buttermilk.
Drumstick trees, mangoes, giant limes, guavas,
sapota, were grown at the back of the compound.
Night jasmines, ixora, wax flower, oleander, were planted
for the gods. We did not have to purchase flowers.
A few furlongs away, Grandma had a farm
where the well was always full. Beans and gourds
intertwined and every two or three days, we plucked greens
and vegetables. I tagged along with her to the family farm.
Inside the house was an inner courtyard where uncles sat
with hand-woven thread towels wrapped around their waists
while their wives rubbed gingelly oil on their bodies
for the ritual oil bath. I vowed never to get married
if this was one of a wife’s duties, little realizing they enjoyed it.
Now the big house is demolished, the family farm levelled.
Concrete flats tower, and the well is full no more.