RangamChiru’s blog

Hello friend,

  • Just feeding the ego of the blog muse out here..….I post anything, my poetry, prose, or stuff that I picked up from a Groundnut wrapper, and some that got into press websites or people forums beyond this blog!!

I’ve  really hated people classified under  MINORITY and MAJORITY tags, but sadly that’s the world we live in. I keep on learning how to think beyond those terms and hope that the day i die, I’m satisfied  with the quality of work i did in respect of my own  pursuit to an equal, unclassified way of living and thinking.

No minority mojo for me and no majority one for you too!!!:-)

Thanks for reading anything out here, even better if there was something that made your day.

Good cheers and Good health,



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You enunciate my Wabi-sabi

You enunciate my Wabi-sabi



WRITING OFF A LONG SENTIENCE :On the road with Jim Morrison

 James Douglas “Jim” Morrison (December 8, 1943 – July 3, 1971)

We dream out of a poetry karaoke
below the constellated shine,
let’s just create one, if there be nay
for random words to be yours and mine.
 “Listen, real poetry doesn't say anything;
 it just ticks off the possibilities. 
Opens all doors. 
You can walk through anyone that suits you.* 

The audience, they,
were quiet vampires
Nights are fiction in a subway,
where lovers and pens write their quires.
I talk of spirits woven in the air
I am the voice of a diegesis
Her laughter, the shadows of a mimesis
there are streaks of whiteness in the dark chambray
  “I believe in a long, prolonged, derangement  
 of the senses 
in order to obtain the unknown”*
Someday on that stone there will be a coda
and your ashes will become  dandelion dust
The day is inflamed, aroused till the final star
so will us gain, by the bathos of death, harvest.
“Death makes angels of us all 
and gives us wings where we had shoulders
 smooth as ravens claws.”*  


[* all italicized quotations 
in green above belong to Jim Morrison"]


Jim's gravestone bears the Greek inscription:
 literally meaning
  "according to his own daemon" 
and usually interpreted as  
"true to his own spirit"
(wikipedia :en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jim_Morrison)

©Rangam Chiru, 26/2/12

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Second set of Ten-gold trophy winning poems.

Hiya again! ( repeated from the first set of ten gold winning poems over facebook note)
please do not misconstrue this for a flaunt. I took genuine notice of your inputs every now and then and still submit to the same eye of assuring criticism or applaud.
It mattered a lot to compete with a section of d crowd that try & contribute to the world of contemporary verse. Its about assessment, not want. Of self-effacing hue, not kitsch pants.
Some Judges had tags of excellence in their works published elsewhere.I keep their recognition.Yes, it's to d taste of judges too.Some writes I favored went below gold, and some i thought with less winning edge won.I guess that's why Zodiacs exist.
Please read them at leisure, and I leave with a fervent hope that you have a word to say or keep.

11. White Moth -30 words


Nonchalant to the noises
of afternoon wind
she ponders
with deep breaths you could see

the movement of thin rib-wafers
ash powders of sweat

Flits vivid pages of black outlines

12. Cold night-lights- 15 words


There is
a lantern bazaar
where women sell fire
men fly away


13. The Utopia in Dystopia

[http://allpoetry.com/poem/7364208 ]

There is no home like home,
the way my father consulted
tribal chiefs of his thought clan
to come up with my name
for which I was not
consulted but grew to understand
that despite
a verb, noun, adjective or tone deficiency,
my home is like my name
that writes within me.

We are poor by the status of
census, and we
support our own army by the sweat
of our labor, but still  our
patriotism is questioned
by our distant brothers;
Might is right, yeah,
but our right is our might.

My home is my constitution.

We have lost
the best men of the family
whose patriotic guts were too
much for the ism of internal politics
to encourage;
Still, my home prides in me,
like an inherited  powder-horn hung
from the shoulder of Uncle brave.

My home stores my uncollected souvenirs.

The cemetery is damp and untidy
like hurriedly left bunkers;
Damp, perhaps
by the eyes of spirits who still see
an unending conflict: We went and gave
hair-cuts to soldier grasses with
whetted machetes and then the tombs
were a parade show of invisible emotions.

My home is both my living and posthumous salute.

Now we have pens trying to replace sickles,
but half-dipped quills struggle to write
better constitutions.
I also am half-filled, so I don’t talk much
but feel enough to write this
heart from the faraway beats of my home.

My home may not be your home,
and my home may not be a house
but it makes me vein the blood
of my poem.


08-04-11, Rangam Chiru

14. -Poster Wash-


Mumbai‘s dhobi ghats
His, her’s, sir’s, siren’s, priest’s,crook’s
Whiplashed,flogged laundry
-Rangam Chiru, 7-4-11

How can those animals with wings be friends?
They hatch eggs over Libya.[Someday,the army of hens will destroy their eggs
instead of using them as Caesar’s omlette bombs.
Minimus has been talking  to me about how politics
would be killed by humanity in the end]

Four pigs of the brotherhood were silenced and executed
Have we not learnt from Snowball-effect?

Old Major‘s skull was put on public display, and the ghosts
of rebellion passed over Iraq. Pink-eyes of the world drank
captured barrels of cow’s milk that were meant to be
poisoned for mass farm obliteration.

Three commandments were amended out of seven, while evolution
made it just one. You see that the Mr. Whympers’ of
various farms with acronyms have been negotiating about how to
delay the world with drafts, bills or acts and finally  make Moses
the Ravens’ speak on Televisions for the rest of their lives.

Religion’s Cat, she came to vote for Egypt and America in the
same prayer box. Boxer , Mollie and Benjamin left for Japan in the
minds of most humans. We were not told how many animals died.
Even Mollie’s donated out of their vanity banks.

Squealers’ addition to the charter got noticed considerably.
No animal shall kill another animal without cause
No human shall kiss another’s cheek with diplomacy.
Kisses and handshakes have killed the world.

We are all pseudo-literate Muriels to read the writings of
the horn and the hoof after a bomb hatches.

See, those with wings are never friends. Never.
Legs and wings cannot have the same laws.
“All animals are equal, but some are more equal than others – George Orwell
29/03/11, Rangam Chiru

I was born in the civilization of
nature, as a fallow sky discarded
its cloudy weeds in  perpetual
wrestle of seasons.

A lake-owner’s levee of bliss,
solidified for every monsoon
that the
unprejudiced ownership of dreams
makes a civilized king
an indigenous story digger
eat on the same table,
decorated by  connoisseurs of
identity and taste.

How the discrimination of lightning strikes
challenged tormented trees
to grow
stronger stems and shoots
and how wayward branches
of the sky forests
give reverence to the artistic
of earth’s  roots.

Challenged repeatedly by the command
of earth’s
artistes and literary spirits,
heaven had no alternative
but display a rainbow canvas
to assert authority.

Some religions even blessed humanity
a chance
of dining in an after-life,
the best of those who were
quietly recommended by gods
to be immortalized
in the embrace of the same earth.

I have easily felt
the dreams
of gods
in the blueprint
of mortal verses.

Do they know
that each day humans
invent new skies beyond
the reach of their
“Poetry is the attempt to translate the dreams of gods felt by intuition”- Rangam Chiru [28-03-11]

17. Written Manna


A phalanx of brown-bereted
spear out from the
bunkers of tree-trunks
as thunder bugled the sleeping soldiers
to salute the raingod’s  marching;

Diligent winds sweep the earth
as amateur brooks beat
a thousand cymbals
to be redeemed by an orchestra
of river choirs.

Forgotten frog poets
of three seasons
finally gather
a mandatory audience
of pricey-feathered wings
and warm-gowned cottage families
sipping the warmth of brewed raindrops;
Budding silver-scale poets
go about in circles looking for
metaphoric interpretations.

Soldiers and their guns
listen in hovels
roofed by polythene blues
reminiscent of
the same summer sky.

Dusty flame-tree leaves
shower bright
on par with
peacock feathers
all set
for an indigenous
rain dance.

As I behold and peruse,
I have absorbed
that poetry
like rain
supplies for every season.
© ˷ Rangam Chiru, March 25, 2011.


18 -Lessons in a Warmblood’s wind


A good poem
in cowboy boots,
struts with fine rowels,
chapguards and
spur-strapped to fine thinking,
tinkles pajados
instinctive voices.

Spurs roll in the heels of my mind,
like these roll of little ellipsis’s
cantering by a thought farm;
I change trots looking
for rum-soaked fodder
a word-stack :

The withers of my life
is held good
by a novice’s strong arms;
The fetlocks of my journey
feel the rush of a halfway
poetry, and contentment
earned its spurs celebrated
Fridays and Sundays.

At times I fail to mount a rump,
when legs weaken to frustrated jumps.
Even when there’s anger,
mustangs taught me to kick
a stallion’s jealousy
the shiniest hooves.

Brown-shine words
are my warmblood strong,
trampling best the grass outgrown;

I ride on
in its gaits
of struggling wind,
in the vision
my galloping  mind.

-“Speak your mind, but ride a fast horse.”
©  Rangam Chiru, 1-03-2010

19. 28 words of Februum


I roam
Dionysus’ kingdoms,
where intoxicated winds
valentine violas.

Chaste clouds
spiritual threads.

Weak toes
of my
mind’s ballerina
piety’s dance.


Nota Bene:
* Februum, latin for purification and February’s root.
-Dionysus, god of wine who sobered in the chaste vows of maiden Amethystos
-Month of February is symbolized by violas,valentine,amethyst,
and virtues of piety, spiritual wisdom & humility
© Rangam Chiru, 23-02-11

20. Re-union-


When the berm sails
that kept their heads aloft
to egodystonic

their bliss was a slow ship scuttling;

There are certain collocations
that destroy single words

like drooped shoulders.

On top of it,
there is a motor word-pump
right below them.

I read their straightening
shoulders in rehabilitating

like a rockstar duo contemplating a re-duet.

The stage would be fossilized

in an egosyntonic hug

having nothing to do
with shoulders.
-Rangam Chiru

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My first copy was dog-eared and sunbaked, the pages brittle and brown, as if the paperback had rested in the back window of an old Pontiac instead of on a library shelf. Some kind of pestilence – water bugs, I believe – had gotten to it before I did, and it was hard to tell, as I turned to that first page, which of us would get more from it.

I was an ignorant teenage schoolboy and read it because a teacher told me to, prodded as if by pitchfork down the hot, dull streets of a town called Maycomb in the desolate 1930s, and pressed into the company of a boy named Jem, a mouthy girl named Scout, and an odd little chucklehead named Dill whom, I am fairly sure, I would have beaten up and relieved of his milk money. I would have preferred the Hardy Boys, preferred to gallop alongside the Riders of the Purple Sage, but I was afraid of teachers then, and so I read. “Maycomb was an old town, but it was a tired old town . . . Somehow, it was hotter then . . . There was no hurry, for there was nowhere to go . . .”

I missed a few words, bug-eaten or besmirched, but I read on, to a shot-down rabid dog, and a neighbour, Boo Radley, in hiding, and a young black man named Tom Robinson who is wrongly accused of raping a young white woman. And, of course, there is Atticus Finch, the lawyer who offers reason, and kindness, and some thin hope. He tries to save Robinson, but, as the pages turned, I saw that it would take more than one good Alabama man to make this sorry world all right. To Kill a Mockingbird was published in 1960, but it was the middle 1970s before it reached the Roy Webb Road in Calhoun County, Alabama, and me. I began reading Harper Lee’s novel in the skimpy shade of a pine outside my grandmother’s house, fat beagles pressing against me, begging for attention, ignored. At dark, I kept reading, first on the couch, a bologna sandwich in one hand, then in my bed, by the light of a 60-watt bulb hanging from the ceiling on an orange drop cord. When my mother came in from her job as a maid and unplugged my chandelier, I replayed the story in my head until it was crowded out by dreams.

I woke the next morning, smelling biscuits, and reached for the book again. I remember this, some 35 years later, the same way I remember where I was when Elvis died. Some things are just important. And as the pages fluttered by, the ragged 50-cent paperback shook my conscience, broke my heart, and took me into its landscape forever. I believed, at the time, I was the only person in the whole world who felt like that. It was my first grown-up book, a story not pat or perfect, about children coming of age in a time when reality falls wretchedly short of ideals. Even as a lynch mob threatens Tom Robinson, Atticus Finch refuses to condemn the cruel conventions of his community and is willing to absorb the mob’s hatred himself, stoic, till a villain named Robert E. Lee Ewell strikes at his own children. Atticus is not the book’s only hero. Another steps from the closet, the shadows.

Many people see To Kill a Mockingbird as a civil rights novel, but it transcends that issue. It is a novel about right and wrong, about kindness and meanness. As a child in rural Alabama in the 1960s, I had seen such stories burn past me, somehow unreal and distant, as buses were overturned, as civil rights workers were beaten or shot from speeding cars. I did not truly feel those hatreds, or understand them, until I read that book. Now that I know this novel’s place in history, I wonder: How many readers have gone with me into those pages and returned in some way different, in some way changed? I am not talking of book sales, although Lee’s Pulitzer Prize–winning novel is one of the most popular books of all time. It has sold an estimated 40 million copies, is a staple of school curricula, and has been translated into some 40 languages.It also made a glorious transition to screen in 1962 in the Academy Award–winning adaptation written by the great Horton Foote and starring Gregory Peck.

Lee, who never wrote another novel, has been covered up to her chin in awards and citations and presented with every trophy short of a gold monkey. But her novel’s finest, most profound legacy is quieter, almost private, something between Lee and one reader at a time. You get to know readers, a little bit, if you write books for a living. You get to see the depth to which they love a book. To Kill a Mockingbird is not just the kind of book people hold in their hearts; it’s the kind people hold to their hearts, wrapping their arms around it and pressing it against their breasts as if they could feel a heartbeat in its paper. I have seen people do that to copies signed and unsigned. We writers should all be so lucky, to write a book people actually hug. Don Brown, a retired newspaper editor who works across the hall from me at the University of Alabama, told me he has picked up countless books in his life, but this one he never really put down. “I don’t think you do,” said Brown, now 73, who has a signed copy. “And I am so proud of it.” It is not a complicated book, to him. “It is a sermon,” he said, “on courage as much as anything else.”

In the collected essays Critical Insights: To Kill a Mockingbird, author and English professor Edythe M. McGovern notes that a 1991 survey by the Book-of-the-Month Club and the Library of Congress Center for the Book found the novel was “most often cited as making a difference in people’s lives, second only to the Bible.”

For Southerners, especially those who were alive in the segregated South, it was a reminder of our finer nature. As so much poison spewed from so many courthouses, statehouses, political platforms, and Klan picnics, it was a kind of poultice, a story set in the 1930s that should have drawn out that meanness, and shamed the wrongdoers of the 1960s into doing the right thing. It did not. But it was, I guess, the closest thing to an antidote we, as a region, would have for a long, long time. We were not political, my family and me. My people swung hammers, poured steel, heaved sticks of pulpwood onto ragged trucks, and made a little liquor deep in the pines along the Alabama-Georgia line. The women worked hunched over the spinning frames in the mill, breathing air that was thick with cotton. Men broke down truck tyres in dirt-floor garages, their sledges ringing through the trees, and broke each other’s bones, now and then, over a woman, or an insult, or an open jug. They sinned and got saved, backslid, then did it all over again, jerking in the grip of the Holy Ghost as if they had grabbed hold of a naked wire. They did a little time, some of them, till their mamas bailed them out, but most of them just punched a time clock, fed their babies, and watched wrestling live from Birmingham on their black-and-white TVs. In late summer and early fall, they picked cotton in the fields beside black men and women, and if there was ever a conflict there, I was too dumb to see it. My mother worked on her knees cleaning the homes of the better-off white ladies in town and took in laundry. If anyone needed a prophet to tell us we were better than someone, better than anyone, I guess it was us. He came to us from Barbour County, a pugnacious little man named George Wallace who promised to protect us from the outside agitators who were coming down here to destroy our way of life.

It made no sense to me as I started school in Calhoun County in 1965. Were they going to take away our sledges? Were they going to unplug my mother’s iron? Were they going to stop us from digging a ditch? But still, we went to see him, to see the show. I remember a rally in Anniston, the county seat, remember a band playing “Dixie”, and an undulating canopy of Confederate battle flags, a whole auditorium of Stars and Bars and fluttering red. The little man got everyone all worked up. The guv’ment in Washington would not force us to go to school or otherwise have unwanted close association with coloured people, he promised. I did not really understand it much. It was, though, quite a show. Not long after that, our daddy got fairly well drunk and ran off. Things got bad for a while, till the black family that lived down the road brought my mother some food, including some good corn. I liked corn, so I liked them. I was six, I believe. I did not need Harper Lee to tell me it was wrong to treat people badly because of colour. I was raised right that way by my gentle mother. What Lee did was make me think about it, longer, deeper, as a man. I would not stand in the company of men who spouted meanness, or be a go-along, come-along racist for the sake of so-called good manners or peace in the family. It is not much, maybe, to say, to claim. But there was more to me after reading that book than before.

I hear it from people my age over and over again. Many scholars have said that To Kill a Mockingbird was never intended as a civil rights book and, powerful as its message was, did not register among the demagogues and night riders who tried, with terror and violence and the law itself, to hold back time. It was not widely banned by people in power, merely ignored. The violence of the 1960s, the murders of civil rights workers in Mississippi, the infamous bombing of the Sixteenth Street Baptist Church in Birmingham, and more, unfolded even as the book was still being lauded in literary circles. But as those crimes smoked and then grew cold, the message in To Kill a Mockingbird lived on. Doug Jones was a college student at the University of Alabama in the middle 1970s, then a law student at the Cumberland School of Law at Samford University. He remembers that he watched the movie first, then read the book.

“It was a dose of conscience,” he said, “of right versus wrong.” Some three decades later, he was the US Attorney and then special prosecutor who convicted the two surviving Klansmen who bombed the Sixteenth Street Baptist Church, killing four little girls, in 1963. They had bragged of their crime, those men, certain no-one would reach so far back in time to punish them. But Atticus, even in black and white, had endured in the mind of Jones and others who worked to make their case. “The duty of a lawyer is to seek justice,” Jones said. “You do it in a professional way, even if it is not popular. I have read that book a dozen times, sometimes read just bits and pieces, but I keep coming back to it. It lives.” The book has had such an impact on our society that some literary types have apparently forgotten that it is not, in fact, real and debate Atticus as if he were a historical figure, now mouldering in the grave. Atticus, some say, fell short. He should have championed civil rights, should have railed in that courtroom, not bowed his head and let Tom Robinson go off to prison, hopeless, to be shot down trying to escape. Others defend Atticus, spitting mad. Maybe he does live.

Don Noble, professor emeritus of English at the University of Alabama, wrote it this way in Critical Insights: To Kill a Mockingbird:“Most readers, over these intervening years, have not expected sainthood from Atticus, and thus have not been miffed at his flaws. Most readers, in fact, understand the novel pretty well. Atticus is a decent man trying to do the right thing, and when we evaluate Atticus and his behaviour in the privacy of our own hearts, it might be good to remember what many mothers have told their children over the years. What if everyone did that? What if everyone behaved that way? Well, just imagine if everyone did behave like Atticus Finch in Alabama, or anywhere for that matter, in 1936. It would be a better world, I think.” As much as I loved that book, I was a bit conflicted. It is easy to love it if your people are from the aristocracy, even a faded one. In my heart, I knew my people were at least marginally closer to the Ewells, who wreaked the misery in Lee’s book, than the educated, respectable Finches. “No economic fluctuations,” Lee wrote, “changed their status.” That drew a little blood.

It may be one reason why I never sought her out, to thank her. Over my writing life, friends and others told me they were making pilgrimages to Lee’s hometown, Monroeville. It was well known she was a private person and did not do interviews, but their love of her book was so strong, they had to try to see her. Some succeeded. But partly out of genuine deference, partly because I would have felt like a clod, knocking on her door, I let her be.

Then, in 2009, I won our state’s lifetime writing award (though I wondered if that meant I was about dead). It was named, of course, for Harper Lee. “You should go see her,” people said. I asked Wayne Greenhaw, a longtime friend of Lee’s, if he thought that it would be OK for me to see her, and he said he did not think she would mind. I walked into the room to a slight, grey-haired woman in glasses, shook her hand, listened as she told me it was a pleasure to see me. I told her the pleasure was mine. Then, after untold conversations with newsmakers around this world, after a few thousand book signings, after a lifetime of small talk at early-morning television shows, literary festivals, and National Public Radio, I had nothing to say. I just wanted to listen. If I talked, I would miss something, for sure. She chatted as people came in and out of the room, made plans for lunch, and spoke briefly of one old friend, a strong, confident woman she once knew.

“She,” Lee said, “is the straw that stirs the liquor.”

Lovely. Writers talk like that.

She said she had never seen the award, so we retrieved it from the car. It is a beautiful bronze replica of the courthouse clock tower in Monroeville, about the size of a mailbox and about the weight of a sack of fertiliser. “Oh, my,” she said. “Yes, ma’am,” I said. “It’s huge.” Writers do not talk like that. For a long time, her phrase stuck in my head.

The straw that stirs the liquor.

That is her, I believe.

SOURCE : http://www.rdasia.com/the-book-that-changed-my-life

AUTHOR BIO : http://www.bookbrowse.com/biographies/index.cfm?author_number=77


UNDERLINE JOHN PRINE: Collected “souvenirs” over the web

Heres a few links that might be of some help for John Prine study. Am currently on one, doing a round-up of his folk poetry in songs. If anyone could add to it, thanks beforehand. Those underlined red are the bigger, important ones, you can’t afford to miss.

I like the way Paul Zollo begins his introduction of John Prine in an interview post:kinda sums up any write .

❚Straight from the streets of Maywood he came, a mailman with a chain of masterpieces. It’s Chicago, 1970, and word starts circulating around this close-knit folk music scene that there’s a new guy who must be heard to be believed. A songwriter who seems to have emerged fully formed with a voice like Hank Williams and songs that resound like some miracle collaboration between Woody Guthrie and Hemingway. His name’s Prine. And almost as soon as the denizens of the Windy City learned of him, the secret was out, and John Prine belonged to the world.  ☗ ( read interview at : http://bluerailroad.wordpress.com/john-prine-the-bluerailroad-interview/ )

A Big, Fat Retrospective by Steve Cooper (Sept 1997) at Perfect Music : http://www.furious.com/perfect/prine.html





☗ Friday, April 09, 2010 Popular Artists Celebrate John Prine With New CD : Today’s avant-roots renaissance owes a great debt to John Prine’s laconic, ever-questioning poetic quality – a debt that is warmly repaid by Broken Hearts & Dirty Windows: Songs of John Prine :  http://ohboyrecordsblog.blogspot.com/2010/04/popular-artists-celebrate-john-prine.html

☗  JOHN PRINE’S  MUSIC IN DETAIL : http://www.jpshrine.org/music/index.html

Complete list of John Prine songs : http://www.whosdatedwho.com/music/songs/john-prine.htm

☗  Casey Chambers interview : http://thecollegecrowddigsme.blogspot.com/2007/06/interview-john-prine.html

☗   REVERB interview http://www.heyreverb.com/2009/06/12/interview-john-prine/

library of Congress with Poet Laureate Ted Kooser, who introduces him in as ” SOMEBODY WHO I HAVE WAITED TO MEET FOR 35 years – http://www.loc.gov/today/cyberlc/feature_wdesc.php?rec=3677


☗  Bob Dylan Exclusive Interview: Reveals His Favorite Songwriters, Thoughts On His Own Cult Figure Status http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2009/04/15/bob-dylan-exclusive-inter_n_187216.html

☗ FOLK MUSIC.COM : http://folkmusic.about.com/od/artistskr/p/JohnPrineBio.htm

WORD PRESS TAGS :- http://en.wordpress.com/tag/john-prine/



☗John Prine: American LegendRoger Ebert: http://blogs.suntimes.com/ebert/pages-for-twitter/john-prine-an-american-legend.html

I guess that’s much about what I thought was an indispensable part of Prine’s collectibles. One thing he has about him is that he draws you towards the words and you say I should perhaps listen to it again- once you read Prine it’s the same as saying “How the hell can a person go to work in the morning
And come home in the evening and have nothing to say” – ANgel From Montgomery

cheers. will get back on the finished product soon.

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Things have a life of their own



( To Garcia Marquez, for the truth in every race’s 100 years of solitude. ” But we rise by waking up our souls”)

Imagination is as icky for some as much as it is lovely,
Civilizations somewhere influencing the other
Passing on batons of an athletic wisdom relay,
Where man races against time, money, customs and culture
as they run through renewed tracks of  poetry and literature,
Magic from stone to paper gradually;
(And that includes noble recognitions and currency)

Thursday’s over
And it’s been raining for the past three months of this year
It’s crazier than the fight of mere cats and dogs, for these monsoons
see long giraffes trampling over my grassy lawn,
And hippopotamuses wallow in the muddy drainage lagoons
Their eyes pop out at times like balloon–sized bubbles of foam;
These elected kings have been ignoring us, sleeping in a prayer’s womb
We live without relief, without fresh milk or without much food;
But as soon as November comes, we hope to be good
For the fields where folks have labored acres of green canopy
to save crops for rainy days like these times of Old Testament calamity,
should make it to harvest for the big feast of Christmas culture ;
When the ancient man with wise words, shall orate through the winter.

My grandfather’s long dead
But he often speaks back through the rain-spirits in our homestead
His friend, standing on the mud, looks up so intense he’d needle a rain-thread
“My fisherman of nine fingers, Does your mouth water for the fishes of your pond?”
I suddenly realize why this air of memories smells so fishy, on and on
But in a world full of magic, lies and truthful metaphors,
Things have a life of their own; it’s a matter of simply releasing our own fears.

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Who is worthy and who is not ?

Souls are not displayed
on mannequins
at the neighborhood mall,
nor hang at the butcher’s shop
to choose a fine breast
that just covered a finer heart,
to feed my own. 

But was it you whom I heard when I was deaf ?
deaf to banal words, but yours were absorbed
Was it you who shew the next obstacle,
when I was blind?
they gave a myriad sights, yet I preferred
a simple hold of your arm, the candor in your voice

Apartments of books lean on a burdened bookend
the pock-marked bespectacled librarian,
with intermittent beard
(like moss on burnt brick)
picks out the thickest
with a keenest intent ;
Glad he lightens the weight on a deadwood.

It would take the time of libraries
to know all authors and pages
Next time you pay the bookman,
look at the unbelievable shelf-stack of attractive wisdom
But gaze longer at that book, when you
put your hands in the backpocket
and pay for the one you just chose;
It’s not necessary for its little press time
or its author’s household connect,
that you’d put it later
on your own shelf.

Who is worthy and who is not?
I rang the bell of my neighbor
to return a well-liked book
she says, “keep it, I just didn’t like it”
I said,” Thank you so much”
and my shelf was happy
for my well-read trophy.

[Author notes] : Prompt : True happiness consists not in the multitude of friends,But in the worth and choice.

Benjamin Jonson


For me, a friend is so much a book at first, that allows to grow itself into books.
And in a library world of all sorts of books, true happiness is found only in the selected ones you borrow for a lifetime.

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    Love, sans curtains

    There are sealed destinations within, that can’t be spelled on a shared map,
    It’s like a tomb underneath the soul that lives in spirit and exists in a warp;
    some carry the stillness till goodbye world, quietness then beyond a sky’s secret,
    while some meet gravediggers of the soul’s soil, who open the hidden garret.

    For bohemians and mavericks I met, along the whiskey teeth of harvest corn
    For a while we bond like tight-tied sheaves, but dry away to a bankrupt morn’
    The last grain of sugar got swept by an innocent broom, fraught ants’ helter-skelter
    You are my world sans curtains; you allowed this guest a loyal rent in your shelter

    Chosen key of mine, you opened a thief’s  hidden pain, to brace my weedy wings
    Blest friend of mine, thrill of a poem, hidden verses flow like newborn tidings,
    Loved song of mine, voice of a sunday choir, my buried music was ne’er so heard;
    Sweet companion for this earth’s time, feel mine till long heaven’s safest gird.

    © 20-10-2010, Kolkata

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    April 09, 1916, NYTimes Interview by JOYCE KILMER:Edwin Arlington Robinson Defines Poetry; A Language, Says Well-Known Poet, that tells us through more or less emotional reaction something which cannot be said

    I typed out of the original photo documentation from New York Times  archives by way of my instant liking for an almost century old print that spoke volumes of how poetry remains deeply rooted till today, to the basic values discussed by Edward Arlington Robinson and Joyce Kilmer. ( Top class pioneers of the 20th century writing)  I liked the interview format, as in a prose form too. I guess copyright issues do not affect as this is purely meant for blog reading and not for commercial reproduction. Here’s a link to the copyrighted photo PDF.



    At no time in the history of literature have the critics been able to agree upon a definition of poetry. And the recent popularity of VERS LIBRE and IMAGISME has made the definer’s task harder than ever before.


    I put some of these questions to EDWARD ARLINGTON ROBINSON, who wrote ” CAPTAIN CRAIG” ” THE TOWN DOWN THE RIVER” and ” THE MAN AGAINST THE SKY”. And this man, whom WILLIAM STANLEY BRAITHWAITE and other authoritative critics have called the foremost of American poets, this student of  life, who was revealing the mysterious poetry of humanity many years before EDGAR LEE MASTERS discovered to the world the vexed spirits  that HEART SPOON RIVER, rewarded my questioning with a new definition of poetry.


    “Eventually ,” I said. ” Then you think that poetry is not always appreciated in the lifetime of its maker?”

    Mr. Robinson smiled whimsically.” I never use words enough,” he said.” It is not unmistakable as soon as it is published but sooner or later it is unmistakable.


    google images

    But why is it,” I asked,” that a great poet is without honor in his own generation where mediocrity is immediately famous?”

    ” it’s hard to say” said Mr. Robinson , thoughtfully regarding the glowing end of his cigar. ” Many causes prevent poetry from being correctly appraised in its own time. Any poetry that is marked by violence, that is conspicuous in color, that is sensationally odd, makes an immediate appeal. On the other hand, poetry that is not noticeably eccentric sometimes fails for years to attract any attention.

    ” I think that this is why so many of KIPLING’s worst poems are greatly overpraised, while some of his best poems  are not appreciated. ” GUNGA DIN” which is, of course, a good thing in its way, has been praised far more than it deserves because of its oddity. And the poem beginning ” There’s a whisper down the field’ has never been properly appreciated. It’s one of the very best of Kipling’s poems, although it is marred by a few lapses of taste. One of his greatest poems, by the way, ” The Children of the Zodiac,” happens to be in prose.

    ” But I am always revising my opinion of Kipling. I have changed my mind about him so often that I have no confidence in my critical judgement. That is one of the reasons why I do not like to criticise my American contemporaries.”

    ” Do you think,” I asked ” That this tendency to pay attention chiefly to the more sensational poets is a characteristic of our generation  as of those that came before?”

    ” I think it applies particularly to our own time,” he replied.” More than ever before oddity and violence are bringing into prominence poets who have little besides these two qualities to offer the world, and some who have more. It may seem very strange to you, but I think that a great modern instance of this tendency is the case of Robert Browning. The eccentricities of Browning’s method are the things that first turned popular attention upon him, but the startling quality in BROWNING made more sensation in his own time than it can ever make again. I say this in spite of the fact that BROWNING and WORDSWORTH,are taken as classic examples of slow recognition. WORDSWORTH, you know, had no respect for the judgement of youth. It may have been sour grapes, but I am inclined to think that there was a great deal of truth in his opinion.

    ” I think it is safe to say that all real poetry is going to give at some time or other a suggestion of FINALITY. In real poetry you find also about it a sort of NIMBUS os what can’t be said.

    ” This NIMBUS may be there- I wouldn’t say that it isn’t there and yet I can’t find it in much of the self-conscious experimenting that is going on nowadays in the name of poetry.

    ” I can’t get over the impression,” Mr. Robinson went on, with a meditative frown,” that these post-impressionists in painting and most of the VERS LIBRISTES in poetry are trying to find some sort of SHORT CUT to artistic success. I know that many of the new writers insist that it is harder to write good rhymed poetry. And judging from some of their results, I am inclined to agree with them.”

    I asked Mr. Robinson if he believed that the evident increase in interest in poetry, shown by the large sales of the work of ROBERT FROST and EDGAR LEE MASTERS and RUPERT BROOKE, indicated a real renascence of poetry.

    ” I think that it indicates a real renascence of poetry,” he replied.” I am sufficiently childlike and hopeful to find it very encouraging.”

    ” DO YOU THINK,” I asked , ” that the Poetry that is written in  America today is better than that written a generation ago?”

    ” I should hardly venture to say that,” said Mr. Robinson.” For one thing we have no EMERSON. EMERSON is the greatest poet who ever wrote in America. Passages scattered here and there in his work surely are the greatest of American poetry. In fact, I think that there are lines and sentences in Emerson’s poetry that are as great as anything anywhere.”

    I asked Mr. Robinson whether he thought the modern English poets were doing better work than their American contemporaries.At first he was unwilling to express an opinion on this subject, repeating his statement that he mistrusted his own critical judgement. But he said: ” Within his limits, I believe that A.E. Housman is the most authentic poet now writing in England. But, of course, his limits are very sharply drawn, I don’t think that anyone who knows anything about poetry will ever think of questioning the inspiration of  “A Shropshire Lad”.

    ” Would you make a similar comment on any other poetry of our time?” I asked.

    ” Well” said Mr. Robinson reflectively ” I think that no one will question the inspiration os some of Kipling’s poems, of parts of JOHN MASEFIELD’s ” DAUBER” and some of the long lyrics by ALFRED NOYES. But I do not think that either of these poets gives the impression of finality which A.E.HOUSMAN gives. But the way in which I have shifted my opinion about some of RUDYARD KIPLING’s poems and most of SWINEBURNE“S , makes me think that Wordsworth was very largely right in his attitude toward the judgement of youth. But where my opinions have shifted, I think now that I always had misgivings. I fancy that youth always has misgivings in regard to what  is later to be modified or repudiated.”

    Then I asked Mr. Robinson if he thought that the war had anything to with the RENASCENCE OF POETRY .

    ” I can’t see any connection,” he replied.” The only effect on poetry that the war has had, so far as I know, is to produce those five sonnets by RUPERT BROOKE. I can’t see that it has caused any poetical event. And there’s no use prophesying what the war will or will not do to poetry, because no one knows anything about it. The civil war seems to have had a little effect o poetry except to produce JULIA WARD HOWE’S ‘ Battle hymn of the Republic,” Whitman’s  poems on the death of Lincoln and LOWELL’s -ODE.

    “Mr. Robinson,” I said ” e has been much discussion recently about the rewards of poetry, and Miss Amy Lowell has said that no poet ought to be expected to make a living by writing. What do you think about it?”

    ” Should a poet be able to make a living out of poetry?” said Mr. Robinson.” Generally speaking, it is not possible for a poet to make a decent living by his work. In most cases it would be bad for his creative faculties for a poet to make as much money as a successful novelist makes. Fortunately there is no danger of that. Now, assuming that a poet has enough money to live on, the most important thing for him to have is an audience. I mean that the best poetry is in the air. If a poet with no obligations and responsibilities except to stay alive can’t live on a thousand dollars a year, ( I don’t undertake to say just how he is going to get it) he’d better go into some business.

    ” Then you don’t think,” I said, ” that literature has lost through the poverty of poets?”

    ” I certainly do believe that literature has lost through the poverty of poets.” said Mr. Robinson. ” I don’t believe in poverty. I never did. I think it is good for a poet to be bumped and knocked around when he is young, but all the difficulties that are put in his way after he gets to be 25 or 30 are certain to take something out of his work. I don’t see how they can do anything else.”

    ” Sometime ago you asked me,” said Mr. Robinson,” how I accounted for our difficulty in making a correct estimate of the poetry of one’s own time. The question is a difficult one. I don’t even say that it has an answer. But the solution of the thing seems to me to be related to what I said about the quality of finality that seems to exist in all real poetry. Finality seems always to have had a way of not obtruding itself to any great extent.”

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    madhya pradesh on my mind-for Dabangg fans only

    [Saw it yesterday, the unforgettable day of September. Not just for Americans but for the world. 9/11 defied any genre of movies nine years back. Well, life moves on, I prayed for the day, the victims and slowly got about moving for a weekend ]

    I’m gonna spell it DaBungg since i read it “The Bang” the first time I saw that name. later when i saw its hindi da-ba ga with a bindu, I realised the importance of grace marks in my school life. Because of my Madhya Pradesh upbringing, I fail in anglicised hindi, just as Gopal of INSCRUTABLE AMERICANS by Anurag Mathur clearly explained. Gopal sahab, abhi bhi aap is desh ke kone-kone mein amar ho. Even when i watched Omkara earlier by Vishal Bharadwaj from Bijnaur (UP) and Gulaal by Anurag Kashyap, all I had in mind was Madhya Pradesh. I had a fearless Bhaubali as a classmate, so he came back to mind. My friend kinda looks like Ajay Devgan too, if school ( house) friends reading this can recall faces of classmates. The hain-ji-ain-ji also brought back a dayscholar friend. Some friends still call me Danny, so I really don’t think it’s a racist comment!:-)

    I got to learn early that this UP-Bihar-MP belt is the trinity of Indian Movies.The good, the bad and the ugly, not respectively. MUMBAI took advantage of this “Familiarity breeds contempt” belt and fed India ostentatiously with the Trio politics, culture, lingo and arts coupled with Tapori– underworld slang that nobody really escaped from.Even Salman Rushdie got hooked to killofy, karofy and Maro-fying of slang-bang in his hawadaar writing. ( though he claims it came from the family language of his younger kith and kin)

    So, Dabungg begins. DASHING-DESHING ENTRY has to be there. Maan Gaye bhaiyya what an entry. Aisa Phaaiting tha, beech mein Matrix jaisa still shots, aur durjon bank lootne walon ko ek akela Salman Eid ke din badhiya dhota hain…dialogue mein bola, abhi tak toh nehelaya hain, ab dho-unga. If you don’t get the belt’s hindi, its difficult to understand, I have bathe them, now I’ll wash them kinda dialogue.

    Thank You Shatrughan Sinha. Hum Khamosh nahin reh sakte. Sonakshi Sinha is Bihar’s poshiest Garam Masala so far. I mentioned Garam Masala for obvious reasons of Baby Neetu chandra who constantly changes her D.O.B. Sonakshi has all it takes to Khamoshify whosoever. jug jug jiyo!those who don’t agree with my views on Sonakshi Sinha….bhai bhaad mein jao, ya patli gali se niklo. [ Reena Roy- ahoy!!] The AAITUM BUMB was a Nesunal phirecracker since d promos. So again, it brought back my classmate bhaubali who sang LAUNDA BADNAAM HUWA in one of our classroom histrionics. As it happened i read a review where the research went absolutely deep. Picture the making of the song interview and the LAUNDA-LAUNDI research links below. To see Salman and Malaika in an item song, in a movie produced by Arbaaz, deserves some applause. Its not just ” All about loving your family sentiments”. This goes beyond that to me. As for now, let me praise the Madhya Pradesh Public School education of the Khan Brothers.

    I don’t wanna really think of how classic actors OM PURI & ANUPAM KHER were roped in for few minutes. VINOD KHANNA already has a WANTED tag, DIMPLE KAPADIA of RUDAALI already knows the language in perfect rendition. I noted that in some movies, Dimple really spews desi venom with the word haraami, just as Sadashiv Amrapurkar would with AAULAD” Thank you KASHYAP BROTHERS, Ehsaan Qureshi of The Great Indian laughter Challenge, & KHAN brothers for constant memories of the Belt- obviously inclusive of above and below the belt connotations.
    The Movie surprisingly had a Kolkata Multiplex full of Seeti- Baazi.Thanks to BPO culture of import-export audience in the metros.

    MINDLESS MAGICAL STUFF with starpower, inclusive of the new Lady Sinha.

    Related archives : 1. THE MAKING OF MUNNI : http://bit.ly/9c7oy5

    2. LAUNDA BADNAAM HUWA :-http://bit.ly/1b8tXq

    3. UTTAR PRADESH FOLK: http://bit.ly/dyrvij

    4. RELATED READ ON A DHAANSU BLOG : http://bit.ly/bAixEe

    5. REENA ROY LOOKALIKE http://bit.ly/9fOUi1

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