Upcoming February IBPC 2015:

[Michael (MV)]

 
any newcomers or returnees this month, Welcome!

and here is a home link to the IBPC rules: http://ibpc.webdelsol.com/rules


Poems recommended to represent the Block are posted here in this thread, along with all IBPC required info.

When the 1-3 are decided upon, and permission granted by each author of the selected poems,

along with the all 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4/and unpublished work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 are not representing in the current IBPC

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.


Please reply - accept or decline - in this thread.

Thanks,

Michael (MV)












 

 
 
 
 

[Billy]

I'd be glad to represent the Block. This is my original work, unpublished. I'm not representing any other board.

Billy Howell-Sinnard
bhowellsinnard@gmail.com


Man of the House

I cook for them. Curried tofu and garbanzo beans,
careful with the chilis, they don't like it hot.
Stir-fries. My own rendition of Sezchuan.

They love my dill weed potato salad.
It's okay--I like to cook. The hard part's
livin' with three women. The older one

says I look like Errol Flynn. She likes my jokes.
"You're not really 55," she says. I sing old songs
to her: 5 foot 2, Eyes of Blue; Hey, Good Lookin'

What Ya Got Cookin'. If she stubs her toe
or burns her finger, she yells, "Oh, Bolshevik".
The middle one doesn't laugh at my jokes.

She tells me when to brush my teeth, how I
ought to prepare the rice, convinced that I turn
my head and spout corny witticisms like her father.

She cajoles the older one to assent to this. The
young one calls me different names depending on
her mood. Yesterday, she washed my pots and pans.

Today, she complains the food is too spicy.
These women blacken the bottoms of skillets.
They think the bigger the flame the better.

[Billy]

I like Siva's poem. It will be a theme submission for the Block:

House Father

Appa gave me the oil bath
while I sat in my white petticoat,
kneading warm gingili oil into my scalp
tempered with black pepper corns and camphor;
later, he dried my hair with
the native Indian frankincense
warm perfume rising from coal embers.

Appa would iron my convent blue pinafore
comb my hair into two plaits knotting them
with two blue ribbon bows
polish my shoes with a hundred strokes,
cycle me to the Holy Angels' Convent, pedaling uphill.

One day I fainted in my bath, carbon monoxide
poisoning from the copper boiler burning live coal.
I had moaned, and he sat in his cane chair
with his forehead in his hands, face buried.

It was Amma who became Samson.
She pushed open the door with her bailwan strength
dragged me out, giving me a lot of breathing space
and I knew then that she was the man of the house.



*Appa-father
Amma-mother
Bailwan -heavy-weight champion

[Michael (MV)]

 
Siva,

if you don't already have a poem committed to represent another board,

will you please allow "Man of the Hour" to represent WB?

Please reply - accept or decline - in this thread: Upcoming February IBPC 2015:

If accepting, then please provide all the needed info.

Thanks, Siva

Michael (MV)

 
 
 
 
  
 

[SivaRamanathan]

"Man of the Hour' is my original unpublished poem and I am not representing any other board.My mail id is sivakamivelliangiri@gmail.com


Man of the Hour

Appa gave me the oil bath
while I sat in my white petticoat,
kneading warm gingili oil into my scalp
tempered with camphor and black peppercorns;

later, he dried my hair with
the native Indian frankincense
warm perfume rising from coal embers.

Appa would iron my convent blue pinafore
comb my hair into two plaits knotting them
with two blue ribbon bows
polish my shoes with a hundred strokes,
cycle me to the Holy Angels' Convent,
pedaling uphill.

One day I fainted in my bath, carbon monoxide
poisoning from the copper boiler burning live coal.
I had crooned, and he sat in his cane chair
with his forehead in his hands, face buried.

It was Amma who pushed open the door
with her bailwan strength, pulled me out
into the fresh air to give me breath again.

[Michael (MV)]

 
sent 3 to represent the WB on Thursday February 5, 2015

for a 3rd I sent in an ekphrastic poem extracted & polished from that February project thread:  viewtopic.php?f=2&t=6009#p25654


time to select for the March IBPC 2015



Michael (MV)