Posts Tagged Chiru metaphors and proverbs

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

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FOLK FICTION-The Eligibility of Language

13th November 2006

“ worthless man.of what use is that silence that does not utter a meaning? You might fool the even more spirits with the crackle of your finger-bones as though you chopped the entire eastern mountains for firewood, but not me…” cursed the fair-woman as usual at her silent, level-headed man.”

“…. let me make worth of you by chopping that odd hair off and trade for the skin of the mighty mountain boar. Ah! Mute sorrow is I. Mute…is I!”

The talkative women of Nokho pitied with the fair-woman and cursed her man as they field in a faraway, while the other brave-men of Nokho were busy being brave. But at sunset, as they entered back into the brave men-land, nobody dared to question the silence, except for the fair-woman.

For the Wise-man had said, “ In the brave men-land of Nokho, where the tiger would rather go hungry, and talkative talk fill women’s intestines, a silent level-headed man will grow like a still, strong tree on its soil. Not one of you shall dare the silence, for like a tame calf he kicks, AT THE TIME. Then, a sheaf of his hair you shall burn at the feet of the mighty mountain rock.”

Father was the Wise-man. the only man who could talk to the outside. The language of his mouth were the scented smoke of the myrrhdust. He knew slices of the white ghost’s language, taught by the white ghosts with a book, whom the brave-men of Nokho captured.

And so the the Wiseman named him Lulungson-the son of the mighty mountain rock or the ‘Lung’.He lovingly prefixed the affectionate Lu, for he was wise.

Lulungson sat still and crackled his fingerbones while the fairwoman cursed.

Exactly like the strong, still tree whose leaves giggled at the tickle of the weak wind.

The fairwoman shouted and rushed about the big kitchen house unloading the workbaskets, thudding the big rice pot over the three well-sliced firestones, until she murmured. Silent Lulung would then drop his son down from the back and kiss him. They wisely smile at each other, excluding the fairwoman.

The Wiseman’s language seemed upon his own son, Lulung. Everyone in the brave menland of Nokho feared the silent one, for they revered the kick of the tame calf, AT THE TIME. Lulung did not brave the mighty mountain boar like the other bravemen. But he worked the company of his son from sunrise to curse, as he silently watched the three corners of the brave menland.

The fairwoman would come back weary, but saved to curse her silent, levelheaded man as though she could water a mute stone to a tree.

The Wiseman had left Lulung enough, AT THE TIME. Bigger rice pots, three other firestones well sliced from the mighty mountain rock, and a gourd of copper and the white ghosts’ coins. And from the big kitchen house on the mountaintop, the three corners of the brave menland were as clear as the fairwoman’s face.

The Wiseman had planted a tall-tree sapling, so that he could hang Lulung on his back and climb the treehouse to watch over the fourth corner of Nokho. But his body was myrrhed before the tall-tree could grow tall and pass on the language of his dream.

From the fourth corner of the brave menland of Nokho, a long haired ghost on a horse  turns into a man-eating tiger and silently watches, like a tiger, to prey upon the back of a silent, still man crackling his fingerbones while chopping firewood.

As the tiger pounces, the Wiseman sees the silent man turn his face when young Lulung would cry from the pain in his kidneys. The Wiseman always helped, but on that unclear morning, Lulung went alone and peed on the tall-tree sapling.

It troubled the Wiseman because of the language of the wisemen that the tiger was their protector and would not harm even a piglet in the brave menland of Nokho, watched by the shadow of the mighty mountain Lung.

“ Go chop that odd hair off and trade for the skin of the…………………boar. Do you hear me or am I pouring water on arum leaves? Ah! Mute sorrow …mute……. Is I!” cursed the fairwoman as she left to field.

She was blessed to the silent one by the language between the wiseman and her father.

“ your daughter is fairer than all the talk of the talkative women of this brave menland. When she is nubile, and my son is strong , let our women smear the doorposts with the mud of myrrh and let them flourish. We shall not tarry, for virile is a glance and virgin is a night.”

Thus the fair-woman father smelt the scented smoke of the myrrhdust.

That day as the fair-woman left, the dream woke. The long-haired tribesmen rode in from the unwatched corner of the brave men-land. A riding tribe that took away anything their hearts desired in the land of others, and they long envied the fair women of the brave menland of Nokho.

Lulungson rushed at the commotion of curses by the talkative women. The wiseman’s sword gathered very less blood as he punctured the guts of the longhaired men with the hoof of his well-slept legs. But the longhaired men kept coming while the brave-men of Nokho were busy being brave with the mighty mountain boar.

Alone as the tame calf kicked, and the agile sword sliced, the protector roared AT THE TIME in the brave menland of Nokho. It pounced and ate the jealous hearts of all the longhaired men alike. The smell of human blood had renewed his appetite long lost by the kerfuffle of the talkative talk of the women of Nokho that made him ignore even a piglet.

“….awiee!!awiee!awieee!!! Mute sorrow is me..Mute… Oh tame calf  who kicked AT THE TIME  and saved the talk of the women of Nokho, let me love your hair this once and anoint you with the precious mud of myrrh..” wept the fairwoman at the silent corpse of  her man who crackled his fingerbones no more.

Only that day, the shorthaired bravemen did not go about their bravery, and the talkative women were unusual as they gathered at the feet of the Mighty Mountain Lung.

As they buried the silent-man, red charcoals crackled as crystals of myrrh-dust were poured in.

The fair-woman kept the Wise-man language and chopped a sheaf of his hair to burn it at the feet of the mighty mountain rock.

AT THE TIME, it smelt like the roast skin of the mighty mountain boar.

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