Posts Tagged Arts

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

[http://allpoetry.com/poem/7459269]

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
——–xxx——–

12. Cold night-lights- 15 words

[http://allpoetry.com/poem/7369523]

There is
a lantern bazaar
where women sell fire
and
men fly away
into
oblivion.

———xxx——–

13. The Utopia in Dystopia

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

There is no home like home,
the way my father consulted
seventy-nine
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
everyday
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
politics
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.

————-xxxxxxxxxxxxxx————————–

08-04-11, Rangam Chiru

14. -Poster Wash-

[http://allpoetry.com/poem/7361696]

Mumbai‘s dhobi ghats
His, her’s, sir’s, siren’s, priest’s,crook’s
Whiplashed,flogged laundry
————-xxx————–
-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.
——————————–xxx————————————–
“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
lectured,
that the
unprejudiced ownership of dreams
makes a civilized king
and
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
pliability
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
wide-awake
immortality?
———–xxx—————–
“Poetry is the attempt to translate the dreams of gods felt by intuition”- Rangam Chiru [28-03-11]

17. Written Manna

[http://allpoetry.com/poem/7325514]

A phalanx of brown-bereted
mushrooms
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
hurriedly
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.
————-xxx———————–
© ˷ 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,
chapguards and
spur-strapped to fine thinking,
tinkles pajados
of
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
in
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
between
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
with
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
of
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
sober,
in
Amethystos’s
valentine violas.

Chaste clouds
rain
in
spiritual threads.

Weak toes
of my
mind’s ballerina
regains,
in
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-

[http://allpoetry.com/poem/7377637]

When the berm sails
that kept their heads aloft
surrendered
to egodystonic
saltwater,

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
poems,

like a rockstar duo contemplating a re-duet.

The stage would be fossilized
then

in an egosyntonic hug

having nothing to do
with shoulders.
—————————xxx———————
13-04-2011
-Rangam Chiru

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Book Review: A terrible Matriarchy – Easterine Kire( Zubaan,2007)

“All of you know my brother was a man who was free with his words and sometimes with his fists…” a funeral speech by a younger brother aimed at seeking apology for the soul of his dead elder brother.

Such realistic portrayals of the evolving Naga Society, leaving aside its inherent humour, contextualizes to mind a “non-diary” Anne Frank, a “non thick-book” Roots, by Alex Haley  “or less than a hundred years” Garcia Marquez for the consuming references to their umbilical roots, from where its literary spirits beautifully haunt many to this day.

Easterine Kire’s  “ A terrible matriarchy” ( Zubaan 2007) has no pretensions, neither magical realism’s, no high-aiming metaphors and clichés , yet it coagulates into a familiarity so strong that one is left to strongly question as to why it took so long for such a story. ( Sorry, it took me 3 yrs after its publication, hence spare me Ad Hominem)

The narrative is in first person which is an elegant part of the novel re-affirming her Naga consanguinity through oral narration of histories, customs and cultures. It’s as though you were closely huddled in a group by the hearth, listening to the narration of an exceptionally strong-willed 5-yr old girl named Dielieno.

Emerging questions would be as strong as those of Dielieno, who exemplifies the quintessential Naga girl, never fighting pro-male privileges, yet gradually managing to pose the quietest interrogations that were to be an eye-opener for the rising status of women in contemporary Naga society. With a quiet rendition of inner strength, Dielieno leaves an undeniable impression with her circumstantial services for a stone-hearted grandmother, who is anti-privileges to a girl child, from a simple treat of jaggery to education. Dielieno, in her own words, hated the woman with vengeance and hence the title of this novel.

Easterine’s fiction prominently displays rich aromas of home-grown metaphors and examples, and each one of these are meticulously put into place to make a reader feel strong lingering realities of the rural hills of Nagaland. You meet an old, tough lady so strong in her own mindset, that she’d cane the scary spirits on their back were they to haunt her; a common well, where usual women drew more gossip than water, an educated grand-uncle on whose written applications depend the village’s official communication,  funeral speeches where speakers are carefully picked from the family to avoid social-bloopers, young school girls re-using Christmas cards, a God-sent leftover British ammunition box to bake Christmas cakes, young boys picking up vices in school, semi-modern girls marrying prematurely etc. and most of all, the nursing sacrifices of Bano, an illegitimate girl-child who would epitomise the persevering qualities of a Naga girl despite the prevailing odds of socio-political disorders, with the book offering brief flashes of the ongoing Naga political Movement.

Heissh! As the tough granny would tiringly say, it’s certainly announcing the cementing of new age ideologies that have waited long to burst out through years of pre-dominant patriarchal weight. A must read for realizing that farthest corners of the world where indigenous communities live in close harmony with nature still have a lot to say about  societal errors, undying romanticism of the living and the dead alike and certainly about feminine qualities of story-telling that makes even the spooky spirits of the Naga hills in north-eastern part of India, worth a curious visit.

For the Nagas‘ themselves, Dielieno herself  is the new face of their story-telling.

http://www.bookvook.com/book/details/terrible-matriarchy-a-zubaan–53-54253.html

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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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