Thursday, July 29, 2010

Once Upon a Time On A Rainy Day

135,602 items / 1,041,155 views

the poet
anxiously
waits for his muse
hoping against hope
she will pass his way
her baby elephant walk
her peacock like sway
umbrella in hand
on a wet muddy day
dark side of the moon
clouds turning gray
a game of hide and seek
on your heart she plays
ponderously provocative
is his muse they say
but beauty lies
in the eyes of a poet
on his soul she displays
reflecting her crowning glory
in a world of decay
falling in love
is a golden moment
you clasp closefisted
from your hand to another
hand it does not fly away
a wet bunch of roses
blushing with excitement
in a roundabout way
till you spot her
holding the hands
of another man
may sound cliche
she was too good for you
she threw you away
like a bunch of red roses
your love washed away

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The Only BE HUMAN Khan

Roland W. Luthi “The hands that help do more good than the lips that pray”

The same could be said of Salman Khan

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Hunger Strikes

135,600 items / 1,040,426 views


ungliyan chat chat kar
handi khurach khurach kar
handi ganji ho jayegi
zindagi yunhi guzar jayegi

hateli par batore
hue ansu
dam todne se pehle
kuch bhuli bisri
yadein dikhaenge
ham jahan the
wahin reh jayenge

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The Silhouette of the Hijab

135,599 items / 1,040,420 views

piety
humanity
spirituality
hope
in the
silhouette
of the hijab
a tradition
culture
the core
essence
purpose
life within
the life
of the hijab
paying
tribute
to modesty
within
the folds
of a garb

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The Silhouette of the Hijab

135,598 items / 1,040,403 views

under the shadow
of male dominated
mullah powered
society lies the
story
of the hijab
a silhouette
of Allah's
protection
in the folds
of a garb

the jehad
for the uplift
of Muslim woman
has not yet begun
Bhai Sahab
education along
with her religious studies
computer savvy
making her self sufficient
self dependent
remains just a Khaab
instead of harping
on issues irrelevant
Muslim society
ignores
the woman in the Niqab
more fatwas
male domineering
make her life
impossible and Kharab

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Searching For Love In My Inbox Amitié et Sincérité

135,597 items / 1,040,388 views

I received mail from a female French speaking person of Canadian origiin or African origin I am not sure irrespective of the borders created by man our origins are as minimalistically animalistic as those of her hairy crotch scratching forefathers from the jungles..


I will now post her message to share my new friend with all of you I wont share her e mail address of course..

Bonjour à vous,

Vous n’êtes pas sans savoir que le net est le meilleur outil de correspondance et surtout un moyen très efficace de se faire des ami (e) s. Si aujourd’hui mon message parvient dans votre boîte email c’est parce que j’aimerais de tout cœur lier une amitié avec vous.

Je sais que vous vous demandez comment j’ai eu votre adresse email. C’est en écrivant juste un pays sur le site Google.fr que votre email m’est parvenu. L’amitié est la seule chose qui ne cesse de lier les hommes et de créer des couples.

Je suis canadienne âgée de 31 ans. Je suis juste une chargée de mission et plus précisément une secrétaire de direction dans une entreprise de la place. Je suis en mission à LONDRES en ANGLETERRE au sein de l’organisation dans laquelle je travaille.

Je sais aussi que allez répondre à mon message car j’ai envie de connaître la culture Africaines et la culture des autres pays. Je ne suis pas raciste, ne fume pas et surtout aime les blagues. J’aime le Cinéma, le tourisme et surtout j’aime manger.

Je m’excuse de mon intrusion dans votre vie privée mais essayez de comprendre.

Voici mon adresse émail personnel, veuillez bien me répondre dans cette boîte :


Je vous souhaite une bonne journée et que la Paix soit avec vous,



Mme CAROLINE VERON

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The Poor Mans Batawada Some Stray Thoughts

135,596 items / 1,040,375 views

Sitting on the streets mother and child are having their morning meal, batata wada pav.. and the little one is really hungry I took two hurried shots so as not to disturb the privacy of a poetic moment that I normally shoot without rhyme or reason.

This guy who sells batata wadas does good business actually all the guys selling foodstuff do good business on this stretch this is the road opposite Bhabha Municipal Hospital touching Water field Road on one end and Hill Road on the other end.


Now let me tell those of my foreign friends who have not visited Mumbai even those who see me in their dreams from time to time ..Waterfield Road has no water no field and Hill road has no hill unless you spot a few loud hijras carrying hillocks on their chest.


Next to this place where the lady sits is a huge gargantuan tree I call the Fat Lady of Hill Road people sit and eat under this tree.

A little ahead is a stall of a herbal medicine man who gives you pan to get rid of Jaundice it works effectively.

So it is through this road Marziya and I walk home cutting into Boran Road to Bazar Road.

And now I must take you back to a thought there are a few friends I eagerly wait to see in Mumbai and the list keeps on growing .

Because Glenn Losack is family and god uncle of Marziya we wait for him , he is getting a nice point and shoot camera for Marziya though with a disclaimer when she grows up when she gets the National Photography Awards at the age of 97 and when the Hindustan Times journo ask her who taught her photography she must mention his name first than mine.

Randy Der Joel is awaited too but wife is worried about his huge dog called Hanu.. we dont take kindly to dogs with dripping saliva.

Fred Anthony Posey Roland Luthi Michel Portier William Poznack and the Facebook bunch are meeting at Cafe Leopold .

June-Ruth A. Canonico is the very lucky one she meets me in her dreams luckily it is not Idd Day or the Indian photojournalists would love to to shoot us a white woman and a brownish burnt black man at Bandra Idd Station Idd Namaz for a new set of Idd hugging pictures.

Specially when I am told Ruth is a ex basketball player 8 Ft 9 inches taller than me in height and intelligence too.

Her message to me for posterity.. with no strings attached .

Strange as it may seem, Firoze, I dreamt last night that I met you! I cannot recall exactly what happened or where...I think India, where I have never been! I was so happy to meet you, but also very careful to be respectful, and not impose a hug on a Muslim man! Aren't dreams funny?

And I have a great respect for my Facebook friends the only place on cyberspace where I interact and respond to comments.

At Flickr I have shut myself off for good.
I have choked strangled squeezed to death my testicular comment box.

And in my next blog I will tell you a new story of a lady who has fallen in love with me she thought I was more lonely than her she approached me , she is from Quebec Canada she says .

Now Randy is a worried man..but the person who has fallen for me is more blacker than I am and hope she is not connected to the Nigerian Mafia who are gunning for my attitudinal multifaceted multi colored ass.

Lastly I am waiting for my Buzznet friends Benn Bell Xris Aljie Yorik Friar Drunk Debbie and Jamieshaef Obqupunx13, Silver Debbe Funksteena Paxgitmo Waza Duck etc

Oh where have they all gone.


Tom Andrews how the fuck did I forget him..

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The Color of Life Pain Revisited

135,594 items / 1,040,338 views

The color of life is not red , it is green, almost the soothing green of green chutney.I shot this without rhyme or reason initially .

When you buy batata wada the staple diet of a man in the hurry on the street on the pav or loaf the chutney is soaked to make the batawada more appetizing,for those who are hardcore unaware of the aesthetics and the poetry of life , who dont like soothing green chutney, he offers you spicy ghati masala red chilly powder and salt..

And this guy sells his stuff close to Marziyas school, the poor the needy the ricksa drivers buy all this from him..he was surprised when I took this shot I was surprised too but sometimes we shoot pictures for kicks and one thing leads to another.

Prose is poetry only the juggler reads it as such, my poets life has taken far too many knocks , I am an earthen pot soaking with my own sweat mixed with a rivulet of tears the bleeding is within you wont see and I am only allowed to show you that when I cut myself for a cause it is called Ghame Hussain the only pain greater than my own pain...or the pain of the cosmos.
Call it Shiaspeak but thats the reality of my poets soul draped in blood.

So a picture
of chutney too
can make you
morbid and morose
within the soul
of my blog i froze
i shot it for kicks
i still dont know
sometimes
we are where we are
like the weather cock
on a church steeple
stranded at one place
everywhere we go
north south east west
only a blog could show
from my computer
into your computer flow
whether it is shooting
pictures
or street dramatizing
poetry
that touches you
me sometimes
healing
sometimes
adding to our woes
that is why
god made you - you
made me firoze
we may be similar
in thought in rhythm
in our pathos our angst
yet we are different
like cheese and chalk
like poetry and prose
this is life
unending pain
knocking us
black and blue
till our head
touches
divinity's toes
embalming us our
pain our sorrow
as never before
the enterprise
i am in unprofitable
money losing
debt encouraging
mortgaged to the bank
i cant foreclose
this blogging
this flogging
perhaps
the only
thing i am
seamlessly
selflessly
good at
says my
nagging wife
day in day out
where the fuck
is the dough

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The No1 Human Khan of Bollywood

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You Dont Shoot A Poem With A Camera Or Do You

135,586 items / 1,039,509 views

Invariably when you buy a camera you shoot pictures , you capture memories moments you stamp on the soul of your photo album.

And most of the photographers truly believe a high end camera shoots high end pictures.

I never was a photographer or remotely connected with poetry..I rarely wrote the blog changed all that kilos of words recycled as pain of the poetry of my life.

When I shot this lady sitting waiting for a bus to take her home , it looked a very simple cut out of a picture there was no poem or anesthetics at play..

I shot her with my camera obviously but a part of my unconscious mind had poetized her much in advance and I tweaked her soul robbing her dry of color..

And now I shall again add the color of words , I have tiill now not decided what I will write I never do it happens in my minds auto mode..

its getting dark
the lights are
getting dimmer
but truth
like a spectral light
lights her way
her past
keeps catching up
with her day by day
the man she loved
passed away
her strength
her faith
he held
as he held
her hand
now a memory
washed away
she reminisces
the laughter
the joy
of her wedding day
his pan stained
sherwani
his sehra
the twinkle
in his eyes
time of day
from the drooping
ghungat
of curiosity
she imagined
it today
the lucknow
wintry nights
the charpoy
his playfulness
with her weight
gave away
the raucous laughter
outside
the doors
tears like
raindrops
uneaten food
on the tray

her pain
poetzied
in a picture
a poet captured
it in a bouquet
without poetry
what is photography
might sound cliche
reading a picture
as a poem
makes a photographer
a poet
in a magic way

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Have Wheels Will Travel

135,567 items / 1,038,985 views

he says
but looks
the other way
his mother
seeing his pain
turns her eyes away
tears that fall from the
slits of her hijab
on her soul
they stay
the silhouette
of the hijab
has a price to pay
hiding her face
hiding her shame
she begs or a living
what more can I say
i am a poet an earthen pot
of mud caught
in word play
if marziya
had not
shown me
her pain
i would
have not
noticed her
our paths
wouldn't
have crossed
this way


a poem a picture
in a deathly embrace
in every way
trial and tribulations
on the soul of humanity
searching for a prayer

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The Silhouette of the Hijab

135,567 items / 1,038,985 views

happiness
has its home in the
mothers eyes
searching for hope
her soul cries
a crippled son
on a wheel chair
as she begs
to stay alive
to society
she pays
a price
seeing
marziya
give
her son
money
she smiles
momentarily
for a short
moment stolen
from eternity
her pain dies


she is the mother of the crippled boy on the wheel chair


to nitin sharma from my birth place lucknow

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