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
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
a lantern bazaar
where women sell fire
men fly away
13. The Utopia in Dystopia
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
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
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;
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
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
-Rangam Chiru, 7-4-11
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
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
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
artistes and literary spirits,
heaven had no alternative
but display a rainbow canvas
to assert authority.
Some religions even blessed humanity
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
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
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
Soldiers and their guns
listen in hovels
roofed by polythene blues
the same summer sky.
Dusty flame-tree leaves
on par with
for an indigenous
As I behold and peruse,
I have absorbed
supplies for every season.
© ˷ Rangam Chiru, March 25, 2011.
” POETRY IS MY RAIN “
18 -Lessons in a Warmblood’s wind
A good poem
in cowboy boots,
struts with fine rowels,
spur-strapped to fine thinking,
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.
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
where intoxicated winds
* 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
When the berm sails
that kept their heads aloft
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