January IBPC Nominations, February Competition Options

[Cleo_Serapis]

Hi all,

Well, we only have two poems that have been accepted for nomination this month, Eric Linden's Hagarmor, the Raven and Larry Jenning's Past Presents. I went back to the last time we had more than 3 poems to send along (it was in October for the Nov comp), and the poem in the list with the next highest number of votes is JaxMyth's eagle-king. So, I'll be sending it as the third submission for MM.

Please let me know if any additional edits are required Eric, Larry and Jan by the end of this month.

Thanks and best of luck!
~Cleo



Past Presents by Larry Jennings

The warmth of morning cocoa dissipated to mere taste,
so too, the sweet aroma of a slowly roasting goose;
both swept away by Autumn’s breath, exhaled into the past.
As Winter’s respite ended, breaking season's yearly truce,

we walked together through the naked woodlands. Where the trees
lift barren arms imploring Spring to hurry on her way.
Out past the furrowed fields behind the tired barn began
our path, worn smooth, from long ago’s forgotten yesterday.

Dad’s old sleigh, broken down, now holds our logs for winter fires
upon its rusted runners… crooked smile of wooden teeth.
Piled high on tattered leather seats, where children used to ride,
are spicy scented pine boughs, harvested to make our wreath.

We traced old steps until the chill nipped noses, crimson red,
then hurried back before the first snow flakes came drifting down
to blanket our small world in white serenity and peace
where memories are neighbors and the forest is our town.




Hagarmor, the Raven by Eric Linden

Out on a cold December night,
one raven interrupts his flight
where, down below, a wildwood stand
with man and horses is in sight.

A senior member of his band,
old Nevermore once crossed this land
to visit Edgar Poe’s abode
and drop his name in Edgar’s hand.

A hundred years have quickly flowed
since Nevermore paused by this road
to rest and watch as snow descends;
now Hagar packs his precious load.

With twists and turns, the roadway wends
as man and team pass through its bends;
their coats, like everything, are white
but soon they’ll visit with old friends.



eagle-king by Jan Iwaszkiewicz


The Beginning

I a petty princeling and lord
of the dark brook and the dry-stone wall
keeper of the jackdaw and black chickens
son of the eagle my father king
wait for one gleam from his hazel eye


The Charms

the dog and I jump the stone
but the jackdaw squawks and plumps to stay
here is a fiefdom of field and wood
mine for the taking with dark dog
we dare and cross to the old trees
I spray gold to the wood spirit
and lower the dog follows suit
our territories set and sprites assuaged
we head out through the rye

I lie with my head on the black dog
under a glow of silver clouds
my neck buttercupped with bright gold
my eyes dissolved in the distant dome
I sort the clouds into seats of power
and count blessings, gather and press
each into charms to be hidden against need
like bulbs of bluebell in the wild wood

I send the dog home and wander
past the wheel of mill house
over the stone bridge and over the brook
out to where the orchard lands wend
and other lords hold sway
I stoop beneath the broken stile
a quick scrump of plump apples
held safer than a wild fox
next to the lean of my spartan belly
victorious gatherer I bring the fruit
and whilever I plead the luck of windfall
clabbered cream will sit fat
on the glorious beauty of pied apple


The Foray

the queen-father and I set forth on foray
past mill castle and west
over the bridged brook bound
by its thin forest of browning leaves

hand on my shoulder the queen-father points
to murdered crows and the slide of pike
and how hedgehogs hog the edge
of hedgerows and where the cress grows
crisp and sharp and how the stinging nettles
should be garnered and how soft an apple
puckered and soft for cider should feel
our legs unminding lay the miles down

we reach the edge of the drystone walls
and our sweat cools I am chilled
the colour is taken from glorious day
his hand is gone and the pig-men wait

they stand in the yard next to a sty
hands polishing the trough wood
eyes fluttering like caged birds
and they mutter words that I cannot catch

dried blood blackens their nails
they look like the old ones
who hide hammers beneath their beds
smiling they seem to be small humans
they nod bobbing to the queen father

we're given mugs of fresh blood
that holds a taste of salt smoke
I feint, but caught, drink firmly
they laugh and thumb the dregs onto my cheeks
I flame with an unknown feel of shame

we are taken to a squat stone building
stuck ugly behind the sties
into a room where knives and cleavers live
blood puddings drip from the rafters
sausages gleam in the soft gloom
and heads look down from the hooks

the stone floor is wet and cold
scalding tubs are tipped to the wall
carved runnels sluiced clean
end in rough iron grates
the echo of squeals is faint but catches
squalling against the shell of my ear

we go to where the apple boughs smoulder
and with a lazy grey intent curl
through cracks in the smoke house walls
hams and flitches turn slowly

the queen-father quickly cuts his mark
in a huge ham he picks from the choke
the old ones grow in anger
but their grim growls are beneath him

he strides smiling to the squat building
we buy fat black puddings
and thick slabs of pink bacon
a plump leg with extra skin
six pairs of fresh trotters
and half a pig’s head for brawn
a deal is struck between the palms

but the old ones no longer nod
nor smile nor mutter a single sound
their eyes no longer flutter but stare

I utter spelled words to ward
us from evil and we slowly leave
our backs burdened with more than meat
I scrub my cheeks bare of blood
that I dare gives me heart

I chant charms and place blessings
upon our path home