Sunday, May 9, 2010

Remembering a Father on Mothers Day

He lost his wife when his children were very young he did not remarry , but he bought up both his children as a father and as mother , so today I pay my tribute to him , a philanthropist a social activist , he has adopted an entire Adivasi tribal village , and he is my patron , my benefactor Mr Diniyar Jamshedjee of Noble Paints.

sometimes a father
becomes a mother
a part that destiny
wants him to play
when god
takes his wife away
he is a father
also a mother
recipient of gods
on Mothers Day
may god give him '
a long life
keep him
happy always

As A Poet I Am A Positive Spam

125,308 items / 892,327 views

in the wash basin
of my head
cramped and jammed
superfluously wanting to
come out as poems
my ass they slam
as a poet cosmic
or otherwise
i am positive spam
words bursting
an overflowing dam
the river of my mind
they out swam
a pedestrian poet
a sacrificial lamb
my foot stuck
in her doorjamb
with her silence
my soul she rams
though she is a man
i call her ma'am
one thing is certain
if we get married
she wont get pregnant
she wont need a pram
the transvestites tale
in my head programmed
on her soul

Blindfolded Love Is A Game Of Chess

she says no
i say yes
she has
deleted me
from her fucked
the recycling bin
of my poetry mind
my thoughts
my pain
belong to her
all that
i possess
a man
who enticed me
in a womans dress
the transvestites tale
continues with no success
her voluptuous mouth
her hunger her thirst
her caress
even in solitary silence
i cannot express
on the other side
of the border
dark side of the moon
her fucked address
a pain humiliating my
soul in distress
unless ...
words i hold back
you can guess
blindfolded love
is the worst
for a street poet
i must confess
a fucked love
on hire purchase
sweet poison
in excess
androgynous angst
of a transvestite
my life has messed


loved by a transvestite
poet your poetry
has been blessed

Portrait of a Street Poet

the street where pain
blossoms in the wild
a mothers dying womb
crying for her child
a world of mirages
where souls are
a poet shooting
fleeting pain
with his grand child
pain on the streets
like garbage
on the seething
soul of humanity
shit like stockpiled
the streets where
innocent buds
in bloom are
doomed defiled
hijras racially profiled
poems within pictures
pictures as poems
erratically compiled
she looked back
lady luck
in sorrow
a pain
self styled
rhythmic verses
the camera's
ill begotten
brain child
a poet

Martyred Memories Keep Coming Back

with resounding force
the only drawback
moments cherished
that time hijacked
unending pain
soundless soundtrack
a lyricless tragedy
that fate swept back
was almost in
but could not pullback
a seminal sorrow
a muted wisecrack
attack after attack
in the bivouac
weeping tears
of a bleeding
on her tired
making a
a spectral light
that has gone
pitch black
searching for her
like a needle
in a haystack

martyred memories
in my caved in mind
that i ransack

Wheels of Karmic Fate

125,307 items / 891,950 views

mans karmic sorrow
his ultimate surrender
wheels of karmic fate
god sitting on a shoreline
fishing for trouble
created man as bait
he caught a lot of trouble
lost the sinker and weight
sat back in wonderment
wondering what did he create
a dichotomy of life and death
man in his earliest state
humble and ornate
man wisdom's only gate
man who loves to mutate
man the by product
of love and hate
surrealistic spirituality
meshes of memories
man beyond debate

to aditya raj dear friend..

Queens Necklace To Sukhi Hontu

Sukhi is a facebook friend

And she sent me a message that is a message of universal peace I share being deeply touched by what she has written of my city and me.

Sukhi Hontu - There are many aspects to my fascination with your photography. I consider

us to be the same "age" although I am your elder by a few years. You would

have been 18-21 when I was 21-24 years old living in the most beautiful

city in the world, Bombay...just to say" Bombay" fills me with the

sweetness of golden honey. I "walk" the streets with your photographs, and

even get a more natural view because I am a white woman and I have no

business being there. Living there was most exotic.The Bazzars, Samovar

, Dipti's,Colaba, Marine Drive...the Queen's Necklace, that great

second floor restaurant with Thalli plates on Marine Drive with windows

open to the ocean, the South Indian Center (with snack bar) on Churchgate.

The Talk of Town Bar on the corner of Marine Drive and Churchgate and the

first Pizza place...

You find the Magic and Exotic Beauty of the old Bombay and take pictures

with empathy for the human beings who inhabit a city of Bollywood

Dreams/Mumbai. You record as a witness all the religious pageantry. You

participate. You live an amazing life. Blessings that your Granddaughter

has given you the spiritual "snap out of it" energy to live, love, laugh

and be happy. Your poetry is worlds better than a weekly visit to a

therapist. Thanks for being my friend and metaphysical brother in watching

the world and keeping humor within our pathos .

The Cry of The Castrated Male Goat

125,306 items / 891,666 views

he was born pretty
sexy seductive
with a luscious
sensuous furry coat
he shook his pendulous
bum when he walked
the other envious
goats in goat land boast
they all wanted to hump him
they would bloat such
thoughts to a cosmic poet
they did emote to fuck the
castrated goat once
in their life time gumless
they would quote
horny as hell they would gloat
but good things come to an end
the butcher had plans as end note
our castrated eunuch goat
was bought by the hijras
before the feast they cut his throat
what was left of him for
the hijra guru
they made a nice


My Final Ode of Pain to the Androgyne

The Transvestites Tale Never Ends

125,305 items / 891,625 views

once I was her lover
her most sought out
poet fate kissed
her musky smell
her slithering
her deep
i could not resist
but than in this
romantic tale
came a filmy twist
i was blocked out
faced booked out
of her friends list
i have deleted her
from my fucked
chat sessions
her going down
on me
i miss
hot steamy
online sex
my flesh
snake like
that hissed
you get the gist
a transvestites tale
my only tryst
pain to cut
an unfriendly wrist
soul searching
it did consist
the timing
was wrong
a love that died
a love
that does
not exist
in love
with women
is a safer option
so thinks
this cultist
moments hidden
as memories
in his close fist
help from
dark forces
i enlist
on hope
as a poetry
of life
i subsist
so i try
to reach out
to the woman
who was there
before the
transvestites tale
now lost in a foggy mist
the only woman i loved
a betrayal unkissed
a breach of emotions
defoliated passion
two ends that wont
mutually coexist
to get her back
an insurmountably task
but the indefatigable poet
in me persists

The Silhouette Of A Hijab

they consider it a weapon
of mass destruction
a garment covering a garment
covering a flesh of a thought
part of a spiritual moral instruction
ban the hijab burn the hijab
they pass an injunction
on a garment of modesty
that does not malfunction
you wear or dont wear it
matter of compunction
the hijab in the eye of a storm
on a European junction

Where Do I Go From Here !

125,304 items / 891,417 views

tired restless
my soul quivers
silently it shivers
floating like debris
on a bleeding river
what i had
i tried to give her
implicated by fate
frozen moments
in hand
but could not deliver

to marta petrov

The Garbage Dump of Life

Bandra is known as the Queen of the Suburbs but lanes like this Chinchpokli lane are human dump yards , and an insult to to the ambiance of this serene suburb.

And nothing is going to change it is areas where the local MP or the local MLA stay that you wont find such an eye sore sight.

But our local corporator Rahebar Khan has done tremendous good work overhauling the entire sewer system.

The Bandra Bazar Municipal Market is the most disease infected area of Bandra , the ugliest filthiest market in all of Mumbai.. would be an understatement too...

Under The Racist Tree

a muslim beggar womans pain
only the muslim will not see
kept at bay an untouchable
under the racist tree
enslaved hands free
a few coins to
rehabilitate her soul
her childs stomach
in the name of charity
pain in all it universality

The Young and the Old

the old
is wisdom in gold
the young fellow
bindas and bold
both hail from
a muslim mold
different household
the older man
serene calm
the little twerp
both heroes
of my online story
grabbing a foothold
together standing
on lifes threshold
indians muslims
human behold

The Stove Repairer of Bandra Bazar Road

He sits and repairs kerosene stoves on the street opposite the wall of the Municipal school at Bandra Bazar Road , he is a cripple but works hard and I pass him too when I take the outer road to my workspace instead of the slum arterial road.

This time I saw him in deep though partially asleep and my camera unlike other cameras that read light reads pain..

And such is life on a slow track, he doe not know I have taken a part of him , his restlessness his anguish and put it on display on line , to show you mans survival on a mean street.

He doe not have a name but to make it easier for you I shall call him Man..caught in the spokes of a Karmic Wheel of Pain.

A Blogger Flogged by Fate

I sometimes buy about Rs 5 worth of seng peanuts from him while going to work via this lane De Monte Street that touches Chinchpokli Road that connects to the main Hill Road ahead.

And I shoot people like him he is a Bhaiyya a North Indian migrant from UP or Bihar , ,add them to my online picture stories , and he stands there all evening , he does brisk business he is thoroughly honest and has now become a part of the landscape of this place , these by lanes of Bandra were once a part of the sea front and shoreline known as Gaothans or fishing villages inhabited by the East Indian Christians , this was built by them , the had their quaint bungalows , old ancestral ambiance ..but it was all swept away as the builders and sharks started buying out these old residents and taking over their sprawling properties ..

By than the migrants from other places moved in and the tapestry changed..this is one of the most tolerant and peaceful areas of Bandra West..

Just a little ahead from where he is standing was a house where we stayed for a very long time, Kamla Bai Sadan , a Repair Permission Channel assisted building built on iron girders ..we moved away from here a few years back ..prior to Kamla Bai Sadan we lived at Dand Pada Khar Danda a Koli fishing village for a short while till the 93 riots changed the entire situation of Hindus Muslims living in peace..

We moved out selling this tenanted property for peanuts..

And I will change gears back to the sengwala a North Indian migrant who has contributed to the growth of Maharashtra my home state.

Unfortunately because of his grit determination , his spirit of survival, he does all the menial jobs he is seen as a threat by some political parties to the original inhabitant or Marathi Manoos , he is used as a scapegoat and is badly inhumanly treated.

According to me the Marathi Manoos and the Bhaiyya get along very well like butter and cheese.

Actually I hate to say it but Ajmal Kasab the Pakistani Terrorist on death row now is treated much more humanly then the Bhaiyyas are..and this is what hurts the most..Kasab has been glorified crores have been spent on him while the common man languishes fucked eternally by his karmic fate.

So it takes a blogger to poetize the soul of a blog on human survival ..could you imagine me sitting in a newspaper office.or going down to give the photo editor head to get one picture published in Mumbais No1 newspaper.

I have been saved the ignominy and what I see as photo journalism in Times of India the paper I subscribe too I would rather commit suicide with my camera strap round my neck...
The pictures are so bad I throw up before even I have taken my diabetic shot and my breakfast.

And I say this because I pay for it and dont get it free..

Happy Mothers Day

it is your bad luck
you were born a male
you will be fattened
at the slaughter house
put up for sale
through your soul
man will appease his faith
is lifes tale said
the mother goat
to her little one
locked in a jail
mothers day comes
once a year
where a mothers
sweet memories
her travail
as greeting cards
they retail
the west use all such
occasions to make money
a thought to bewail
its our misfortune
we ape their ethos