Saturday, July 28, 2007

Shooting On One Leg and the Disaster NikonD70

Saturday, January 21, 2006

The Mystery of Pain
by Emily Dickinson

Pain has an element of blank;
It cannot recollect
When it began,
or if there were
A day when it was not.
It has no future but itself,
Its infinite realms contain
Its past, enlightened to perceive
New periods of pain.

Shooting on one leg and this one leg connected to the Kundalini of my Karma of my love online.
And I never lose my balance if I do then I take it as a warning from Providence, picture lacks the inner depth required in pictures of Photographerno1.
And I have been pushed around but if the picture is destined to come to life it will.. push , pull or shove.
And I dont know if I told you at the Nasik Kumbh 2004 I was accidently pushed into the deep end , my Nikon F 100 my Nikon ED80-200 2.8 lens immersed in water be it holy waters of the Godavari and at the other end the Shai Snan or Holy Dip taking place and me in tears and as I knew how the Nikon authorised service technicians at Mazda Imaging would rape me with my clothes on..
I hurriedly dried my camera put it away and shot the rest on F90x the fucked disaster of a digital dude D70 had not entered my life.
At home I placed the F100 and offered it as a blessings to my Holy Saint .. the next morning my camera was shooting away and no harm done.And there is a guy from
"rebelpow" that and has taken offence to my bad mouthing Nikon.. calls me a crying Amateur.. who loves to attack big companies ..
I almost puked the biggest cry babies are Americans who will sue the midwife if they come feet first instead of their heads.. I am not speaking about your President..his feet are on ferma terra though ferma terra can be Iraq or Afghanistan is a different matter..
And If REBEL POW .. had bought a camera on a 3 year bank loan and gone through what I have gone he would have ulcers stretching from his ass the eternity of his dimwit mind.
And Nikon has never bothered to get back at me.. it hurts ..I bought Nikon for its dependancy and name and all my pictiures are shot on Nikon cameras.
And Rebel pOW wants to play Devils Advocate to a company that will soon be Canonized ..unbeatified... my fight is not with him or the yahoo digital group.
And I cant blame mtself for falling in love with the Indianess of America.. my fucked luck the Medicine Wheel... all my American loves are doomed.. quicksilvered. .to. .quick sand.

If You Forget Me by PabloNeruda.

I want you to know one thing. You know how this is: if I look at the crystal moon, at the red branch of the slow autumn at my window, if I touch near the fire the impalpable ash or the wrinkled body of the log, everything carries me to you, as if everything that exists, aromas, light, metals, were little boats that sail toward those isles of yours that wait for me. Well, now, if little by little you stop loving me I shall stop loving you little by little. If suddenly you forget me do not look for me, for I shall already have forgotten you. If you think it long and mad, the wind of banners that passes through my life, and you decide to leave me at the shore of the heart where I have roots, remember that on that day, at that hour, I shall lift my arms and my roots will set off to seek another land. But if each day, each hour, you feel that you are destined for me with implacable sweetness, if each day a flower climbs up to your lips to seek me, ah my love, ah my own, in me all that fire is repeated, in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten, my love feeds on your love, beloved, and as long as you live it will be in your arms without leaving mine.

i am searching for you..

i am searching for you in the darkness of my heart

bewailing silence from your end tears my soul apart..

like a blind folded beggar..whose road you light and chart..

yes i dare to tell the world i love you..dimwitted not so smart.

you enter like a shard of light in the dakness of my heart...

The Medicine Wheel Moves Anti -clockwise

Just my raw poetry and raw emotion.
I writhe here and she across the ocean
I can move mountains with blind devotion

I dont need craft to fuck her
No tool no instrumentation
Just my raw poetry and raw emotion.

I finger fuck her
Punctuate her silence
through my keyboard
my rabidly rodent mouse
plague her into accepting
my come.. into a welcome situation
she cries out in pain no orgiastic hesitation.
this this is sheer screeching screwing in an online situation.
just my raw poetry as a pictorial gratificatiom...
a life time love overflowing sensation.
Originally uploaded by flickr photographerno1
All my poems about 389 of them..
I have collected and show cased them on this site..I discovered this site while surfing..I am not much of a poetry man..but love does stange things to unstange people..The Alaskan Fern..picked up a snowflake breathed life into it and as life began to pump blood and iron.. a precocious crow shat on my head.. no .. I was not lucky as Newton I did not learn the law of Gravity but I lost all that I had and I walk on my head..everytime I dare to think that I have fallen in love with..a wall.

Yes I am not a brick of a wall.. the wall has all that it needs to be called a Home.

But it does not deter me..and love is not about a free fuck or a just or unjust reward..that I am alive and love ..or that I love and I am alive is enough a reason..without unreasonable doubt.

And try not to decipher whom I love all the clues are misplaced..whom you think I love is not whom I love..I dont love a human form..far from it..I too am an archer my eyes blindfolded I hit an arrow and it will only touch the heart that it was meant for..

And today is my last night at our rented house.

Read from some humble poet,

Whose songs gushed from his heart,

As showers from the clouds of summer,

Or tears from the eyelids start. Longfellow The day is done.

And this is for her,,,

"Give me a theme " the little poet cried,

"And I will do my part";

"Tis not a theme you need,"the world replied;

"You need a heart".,,r w gilder

this is an old post

O Shoe O Sand

O Shoe O Sand
Originally uploaded by flickr photographerno1
Funereal cold winding sheets of water

And my uncocked last stand

My Bald pate my Bejewelled hand

Just barely visible and O shoe O sand

Yes I am drowning in the Red Sea of your Heart

This was what the Maker intended

A suitable end to an unsuitable start.

I could have floated in the Dead Sea of your heart

Undrowned..but misery my epitaph

Scrawled in blood

On the blood shedded waters of your heart.

You love

Love more beautifiul and more smart

I shall die untenanted,,

Unrepantant Unweeping waters of you heart.

Cyberspaced love

Uncrafted Unrafted fiercly furious waters of your heart.

O Shoe O sand barefeet minstrel sings

In the cold wall to wall waltzing waters of your heart

explanation..for the very smart..or reader of hidden words.

shoe is my phallic longings to have been hung from the door of her heart and sand is cotton wool that you throw in a mans eye when you know he is a dwarf dimwitted.. dumb..drivelled doggerelled to a deaf and dead heart...

Wild Unfeline Buzz Cats

buzzcats. the deadliest cyber specie..buzzcats..
wild unfeline buzz cats..
they nibble us, dribble us, scribble us
us poor petrocious innocent buzzrats..
they scratch us, maim us, lame us, blame us
us poor petrocious innocent fucked rats..
god almighty we will stick to female dogs
but do save us , do save us
from wild unfeline buzz cats

personal view of the poet but not of photographerno1

petrocious is a flaccidly phallic word.. for an obedient toilet trained house trained pet.. origins.. ha ha

photo courtesy

Buzznet Poets Corner...Poets Lounge

profile photo steve haldane
steve from a devils advocate became the devil when he threw me to the wolves..

This is an old Buzznet post...I had rejoined Buzznet as Shia Thu No1 but after coming to the pictorial penitentiary called Flickr I have stopped posting at Buzznet and Ipernity .I could if there was a way, as I cross blog to my two sites on Bloggerspot, Word Press and my Shia site .

My homesite is photo gallery..

I just deleted a journal.. about the list of my 132 poems but it is hyperlinked to my poem edit page but what really makes me wonder that we should have a poets lounge at Buzznet as there are so many unborn poets , some slyly lying in the incubator, some slyly like me waiting to be breast the one who likes my poetry . I dont know the genre but at they call it slam poetry..the only thing I know is a slammed door that shut on my inbox..Gmail.
I hardly get anything in the Buzznet inbox..recession in love times have changed..the Indian Rupee is shaky the US dollar reigns supreme... my poems specially the horny ones are quite a craze,,and when I wrote my mother last night my wife liked it immensely she was put off with the word fuck.. but then motherhood would not see the light of day without the crass and pedstrian form of reproductive gluttony we call fuck.. fuck makes the world go round.. round and round..

Any way I got to thank Steve for all I am today .. the gluttony of my journal.. the upgrade to spread the word of the Buzznet Gospel..loving and scaring..I mean sharing.
I am at my studio.. wife fed me and has gone.. the Kaiser Bagh function is today..
I lost a few earlier journals.. Page cannot be displayed..

And the Devil is not that smart or cleverer or human as Steve Haldane..

God And Me Prose and Poetry

You guys must be wondering why I have silenced myself.

Well I had a meeting with God at Moghul Masjid and it was really quiet about early evening and the waters in the pool with pebbles being thrown to scare the fishes by little fat faced cherubic angels as God was away and the mice were at play..
God was sitting pondering on the bench and feeding flour balls to the fishes that were at the shallow end of the pool.. it is the deep end in life that gets hit badly, the big fishes at the mercy of the angels…

God beckoned me, all of me, my bare feet, bald pate and my camera bag and my shawl. humility… my dwarfish simplicity.( I remembered she asked me why do I call my self dwarf in the first place I am not as heavenly endowed as him.. her dream man in the second place in the presence of God only children come to his shoulders.)

God looked pained as he normally does during Moharam..
And God was far too fond of Hussain. this is not about a particular sect or religion it is about sacrifice to save Honor , Man And Mankind .
The Heritage of the Messenger of God.

God asked me how things were with me..
He could see the wounds that grew like creeper on the banyan tree of my heart..
I told him life was not what used to be when I was 21 years old.. I had aged and life had remained young.
Love was not the same.
Marriages were just not the same.
I thought of a dear friend.
She is seriously funny.
I thought of another friend..
Her 4 year eyelashed of a daughter.
A single mother is playing it by ear..

God was reading my mind…
I thought of my wife my love for her, my cravings ,my failings, her tears , her 30 years of poetic pleasures.
Unread poetry like the Endymion..
John could not cheat life out of death…

I also wanted to know having mansions in my fathers house .. I still sought the freedom of a wind, the cloudiness of a carefree sky..the sad mournful cawing of the Crow as he sat on the erect tombstone of a poets grave ..
Droppings of rhythmic resonance of ..Death,, the Crow away from the purview of stolen land .. Stolen and cheaply sold artifacts of a native glory transfused alcohol instead of pride and blood.

All foolish thoughts.. I had so much to say but it was as though someone had throttled my voice box…I love her as destiny demands.. Pay the price of silence.
I try to keep away but she hits me like teasing pellet from a sling shot… this is not the Dichotomy of love.. Dichotomy failed me..
Wife did not want to give her satin stained coverlet of my come for laundering to Alaska.

And she is aware of … knows as all far reaching thinking women…that she is the sinewy, streaming rivulets of blood, the ore of my poesy the kernel of my thoughts..
Also Love beguiled by love.
Love routed love, as suicidal as love, love kills love…

And I heard the call of the Muezzin…
God had disappeared..
Yes Namaaz is the heart of our religion..
Sacrifice is the soul of our Hearts..

And terrorism a blunt dagger in the heart of Karbala.

And the chant of the Mother of Sacrifice.. Ambushed Honor.

Ya Hussain Ya Hussain.

I Firoze Shakir Photographerno1 Unmounded

Mound is not the one you associate with a sexually physical fecundity..
My Mound in this context is extraterrestrial and female sublime and supreme
Power of the mind.. that had bound me hand and feet .
And this poem is not alluding to my love life.. give me my moment of glee unspared.and unsparred..
these words haunted me all night perhaps I was in pain.. as my back is opened up and bleeding instead of my heart..

I Firoze Shakir Photographerno1
lay my head on the meadowed carpet of her Mound..
To listen to extra terrestrial sounds..
that penetrate soakingly sweet..
And reach my ears and unwound.

I Firoze Shakir Photographerno1
am Confucius.. confounded to her Mound
I search for Wisdom..wishfully ..wilting
Quilting, soul searchingly for some sound.

I Firoze Shakir Photographerno1
Bald, Bare assed and Family jewelled
Taking a dip in the holy waters of her Mound.
Did no reach surface got drowned.
Lost his family jewels..without a sound.
They are still searching uncloned unfound.

I Firoze Shakir Photographerno1
am a Whispered Word hiding in the undergrowth of her Mound
Blasphemously sentenced to sound
Till another soothingly satisfying sentence comes around.

I Firoze Shakir Photographerno1
am in love and honor bound ..tresspassing Private Property
Of her Mound..trying to loot the forbidden fruit tip toe
Sling shot no sound..
The caretaker is sleeping elsewhere million light years from her Mound..
With a pretty young lass in some other garden still unfound.

I Firoze Shakir Photographerno1
am dew drop on the open flowery unfurled petals of her Mound
Nectared honey ambered .. golden filigreed ..
And in the nether regions that abound.

I Firoze Shakir Photographerno1
am a schooner on the marshes of her Mound
I fell in love keeled over..pretentiously
To be repaired an cared
Till another boat and dashing boatswain comes around..

Shoot But Dont Stymie..

I am not a word technician, I dont rent words words rend me .

I write what I feel and what I feel I see.

I dont buy words words by me..
with a discount belie me.

I am not a word craftsman.. nor am I crafty nor does craft deny me..

I am raw bleeding bloodied emotions, I am Pain..unheralded take some time off

breathtakingly just try me..

I am a Poem Hunter .. leopard like feline from the heart of your cage unpry me..

I Firoze Shakir Photographer no1 love you as a Blog..a Written Word with your shoddy silencing gunshots.. shoot but dont stymie

Valentine..And its not Mine..

photo courtesy

My garrulous gargoyled
Coquettish cock
Sparsely feathered..
One day in my language began to talk
And to me it was no shock
It’s an up and
uncoming poets cock
unjocularly jock
words began to rock
unjawed to unlock
He said:
Bald head
You are already wed
Maritally deadly dead
Your balls badly lead
And always in debt
me caged
And hung
In the water shed.
Why do you fall in
Love on the net,
You shake us dry
And no feast or fete
And the babes you love
Already committed and wed.
Why don’t you get it over
You pathetic lousy lover
Commit hara kiri on your sodden bed
Why don’t you fuck a guy instead.
But you bald soon forget ,
You got kicked out of Alaska
Bareassed bejewelled unblest
Whats in the USA.that you cant get at home ..
Fuck Fuck and no rest
Yet you want to shed tears on the net..
And tears from my cockeyed eyelet
And all this for a big titted bimbo
You have never met.
You and your fucking Buzznet..
Don’t ruffle my feathers ..
And get the fuck off Fucknett,,
Or I will piss you off with my jet.
You thick skinned unleathered
Sea cook of a fathered silhouette.
My thoughtful reply to my penile pet:..
I will always love her the lady
No big titted bimbo but the best..
Will meet her on another planet
Some other time at Cupids behest..
A Valentine my first to her on Buzznet.
It is only she that I love on the net.
With blood my tears and my sweat..
Oh Blog Goddes with a blue toilet to let

Any resemblance to any one living or dead is entirely coincidental..

Our Lady of The Mount

Our Lady of the Mount
When the going gets tough
On her you can count
She is Love
She is Peace
Immaculate Conception
that gave birth to a Fount

The Crow Man of Carter Road

I think crows are more intelligent than man, the blog goddess kept a crow as a pet that loved shitting on my bald head..
The crows wait for this man, he never fails them he is always on time , he brings ghatya and feeds them without reservation..
He has named the more friendliers ones , there is Sharukh Khan that stutters while it caws , no dont think I am pulling a fast one I swear it sounds like Kirannnnnnn..
Than there is a robust healthy one, he this gentleman calls Sallu Bhai, aka Salman Khan...this guy really is pushy and is humping almost all the female starlet crows..
than there is Govinda , this crow is now making a healthy comeback.. a little ahead there are two madly in love crows they sit on the bungalow Naievedya that belongs to Abhiash Bachchan..they avoid this part of the pedestrian promenade completely...
He was going to tell me about the other crows John, Vivek, Saif ,but I was in oxymoron haste , so I left him alone in company of the cacophonic crows.. but he did show me a buxom one all black as though dressed in an alluring feather bUrkha , he said she is the ultimate Mallika Sherawat..the moment he uttered this word another female crow started creating a telivision serial scene...he told me softly ignore her she loves publicity ..that is Rakhee Sawant for you..
I could not resist and finally asked him what about the Shetty Goddess crow.. Oh Shilpa
he said has migrated to UK ...with a sigh..some unfinished uneaten crumbs of Ghatiya in his hand..
This is photoblogginng when I talk, when I post pictures and keep quiet it is called Unlearning Photography..