Archive for category POETRY

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"

©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

[ ]

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

<img src=’’ alt=’ Registered & Protected’ title=’Copyright Protected’ width=’145px’ height=’38px’ border=’0’/>

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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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    Tekhelet pigments in the Bible of a Jew
    Dyed blood of a sea marine called the Hillazon;
    The Talmud says that once in seventy years, it comes out of the ocean,
    Body of the sea and form of a fish, milked for the holy tassels hue
    Lo! Royal blue portiere of the sky’s door shows a star to the three wise men
    Dor, the murex snail’s city fetches costly silver for the Phoenician’s fascination;
    They that relentlessly milked the Tyrian purple, imperial dye of the emperor,
    Blessed the king’s child as “porphyrogenitos”; Hail! “Born in the purple”!
    Luxurious dye that made Aristotle wrote of the shellfish for “History of animals”,
    Along the coast of Levant did Heracles dog chew on this poor molluscan balls;
    Purple lipped pet, sure makes a funny portrait for a barking parrot
    Europe only chose the insect vermillion to paint their crimson blue-red appetite.
    Tzitzit Israelite’s fringes, the Rabbis saw in God’s throne, a pavement of sapphire
    Meditate on the sky’s blue, and mediate from red anger towards its calm fire
    From Virgin Mary to some hindu gods, depicted by the blue snail pigments
    Destroyer Shiva turned poisonous blue; he drank to win against the demons.
    Love darts of the garden snail that might the myth of Cupid’s arrows
    The wicked melt like snailing-slime in Psalms fifty eight and eight,
    Only Hesiod wrote that when the snail climbed the stalk, harvest time shows
    Aztec’s moon god, withdraws the moon inside its shell-back, while lunar lovers wait.
    For all at last to make the slow’s tribute a little fast is Carl Gustav Jung,
    For his interpretative analysis gave the slow-blue snail its well-deserved rung,
    You and I are the snail in dreams, truly not a lazy moving analogy
    Soft linings of our subconscious, only awakes to the hard shell of reality.

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    One book                                                                                                                                                                                                                                             Penetrating Lucidity Helps see things beyond impermeable moorings

    One story                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                   Inviting Similarity                                                                                                                                                                                                                           Helps reflect beyond a gallery of musings

    One look                                                                                                                                                                                                                                             Excruciating mystery                                                                                                                                                                                                                 Helps vision beyond nightmarish dreamings’

    One you, one me                                                                                                                                                                                                                               Engaging Identity
    helps live beyond the existences of other beings.

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    In and Out

    Outside of the window, it looks like spring

    Inside, my mind simpers a flightless wing

    Hit by an arrow of impertinence, bloodless clot

    A cruel lightning slash, a clueless shot

    The Same world, an in and out thought

    Outside of the body, I wear a ring

    Inside, no more radius for such a heartless thing

    Here I am on the verge of a breathless blink

    Love sends but no notes for one song to sing

    The same golden flesh, an in and out sheen

    Outside of this earth, there must be a globe

    Inside, a haven of restless souls, underneath a cloudy robe

    No love, no remorse, just an increasing street of poets

    Each laden with weight, leaving their touching blots

    Same tombstones, bodies in but spirits out on the roads.

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    (simply playing with the variants of Tequila Sunrise cocktail….a drink thats got the name of befitting songs alike )

    Finally together, we sipped the gradations of an afternoon crystal ball
    Deeply lost in the settled black currant shadows of a highball tall
    Mesmerised by the red-sea sunrise that overlooked my alcoholic sea
    Her giggling stories dashed with a longing slice of orange and cherry
    Crème da cassis feelings sinking slowly like Poirot’s mystery
    Hey sunshine sung by the band from the southern with a Caribbean seal
    Sheer magical feel, royally dominated by her grenadine lips
    Amaretto Disaronno, our Italian rendezvous of memories in stirring teal
    A kiss of three years sunsets, the price of a thousand cocktail ships
    Begins again our musings together,
    For the endless sunrises of the tequilateral.

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    Originally uploaded by rangamchiru
    Receding consciousness
    A fainting fish out of the bowl spaces
    Instantly rejuvenate, the death of mirages
    Humanity, a fish in unconscionable waters
    Spiritual engineers building dams of reason and creating harness
    Deep waters from Vietnam, Tibet, etcetera in an ocean with surviving stenches
    Some came by the Himalayas and are still frozen in many a mind’s glaciers
    To melt for solace during the scorched moments of desperate fish-netters
    Man is of the waters, lesser flesh, and so we learn by flowing rivers
    The beggar’s song becomes the richest crown of jewels
    The rich man’s life becomes the beggar’s bowl of desperate collectibles
    We swim in faith and we mysteriously drown in the same
    They drink in everyman’s stardom and finally drown in fame
    They knot in the tide of love and face the murky currents
    Some wished of the meteors and got lost in the starry torrents
    Unconscionable, yet we have to endlessly swim
    We are of the waters, less flesh
    Swim free, the waves to caress
    In the streaming tunes of many a hymn
    Before the ocean ends and the journey trim. 




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    On a Landslide


    Originally uploaded by rangamchiru

    The earth surrendered to the rains
    And slid to meet the river down
    Test for the Brakes and machines
    Quick decisions
    Some good and some to be seen
    Roots uprooted, wrong place at the wrong time
    Their youth, their age swept
    By the pride of rivers and rain
    Another big machine comes along
    Clears the debris and varied green corpses
    What was once a camera’s delight
    Became a visual nightmare
    Hope alive, recuperating strength
    In the breath of the roots left behind

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