Posts Tagged Poetry

You enunciate my Wabi-sabi

You enunciate my Wabi-sabi

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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

[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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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

http://allpoetry.com/poem/6901921

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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    “ALWAYS I KNOW YOU ANEW”-William R. Benet

      

    Originally uploaded by rangamchiru
     

    I press my hands on my eyes
    And will that you come to me.
    Your semblances shimmer and rise;
    Yet ’tis never your self I see,
    Never the exquisite grace
    And the bright, still flame of you.
    So, when I meet you face to face,
    Always I know you anew! 

    Faint visions I saw, instead
    Of your brows direct and wise,
    Of the little lilt of your head
    And your dark-lashed, sky-clear eyes,
    Of the soft brown braids demure,
    The poise as of quiet light,
    The perfect profile, sweet and pure,–
    Never I dream you aright! 

    And new in endless ways,
    By your blessed heart unplanned,
    It is mine to surprise each sweeter phase,
    Adore you, and understand;
    For through every delicious change in you
    Truth burns with a clear still flame;
    And, though always I know you anew,
    Always I find you the same!
    -william R,Benet 

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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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    Bluesque

    The sky,  blue sky

    The dark shroud alibi

    Unable to hide its indepth abyss

     Releases, wet colorless hues

    What repenting gladiators feel that the sky doesn’t?

     

    The sky, red sky colorplay, receding

    Horizon’s hairline or a balding sunshine expressing

     A thousand brushes failure

    What legends of artistes could that hue-mix capture?

     

    If the sky could be true to its emotions

    And show us

     Why my soul would you not live through transformations,

     And celebrate thus?

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    CONCEALED TALISMANS

     

    Round world, like the wistful pendant on her high society neck
    With gods and goddesses, and amulets of the earth
    Morning newspapers securing their own with our fortunes,
    Tarots, alphabets, integers and all that you can speck;
    Sometime in the chill of a night by the temperate hearth
    We drank parleys of hill tales and legends, thick in the green, green dunes
    I ascertained some patented beliefs and talismans
    Not those conspicuous sparkling city blends
    But concealed within as locked cartridges of guns
    Never tentative but decisive of the timely hour
    When all that in sight is, what you closed an eye for.

    The might of human faith, fragile though by a black cat’s notion
    Or insuperable the feeling of waking up to a good sleep’s dream
    The sun, moon, stars or the flash of an ephemeral starlit beam
    Pilgrims to their creed’s holy soil, to wash their sins and plan salvation
    They tie some knots of coloured threads, or dangle jewelled crosses of the crucified Lord
    Five times on a rug, three times in a lion’s lair, retold to strike a heavenly chord
    The endless flock of worshippers, from sea to shore
    When all that overwhelms thought is, what you bowed your head for.

    A frisky wild squirrel crossed our campaign route; they rejoiced a win in the elections
    A lost deer oddly jaunts in front of our convoy; danger ahead in ambush as hunched,
    A wild rooster unusually atop the Church bell, evoking the overnight dead pastor’s imposing sermons
    The dog wailed on top of their thatched roof, its loyal reminder to fellow mortals,
    Perpetual clash of customary beliefs with meekness of docile apostles
    Established justice by the bite of mother tiger’s lost tooth, or by water baptism
    The cattle raider consequent by guilt of the bite, not a mere bit random
    The gun thief spat out by the just water in a trice, while honesty breathed absolute calm.
    Treasured instincts of natives ingrained as lines on their palm.
    When delayed is justice denied, ethnic integrity helps the languishing Indian courts swarm.

    And in us all hang concealed talismans, hopeful like a prayer before their hunt
    Rabbit’s -foot- touch-wood or the crossed fingers for those in want
    False notions hover still around as butterflies on a wild cat’s banal dung,
    To each their faith, and in each faith gallop horse-shoes from old to us young:
    On the hearthrug, I slept by the crow of dawn almost four
    Around a hundred stories yawned; need I mystify the self more?
    Discerningly validated by us all, when all that of faith remains is, just what you are desirous for.

    ****

    -Rangam Thoitak Chiru

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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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