To Sir With Love Penniless Poet of Mumbai

To Sir With Love Penniless Poet of Mumbai, originally uploaded by firoze shakir photographerno1.

181,170 items / 1,428,023 views

These are images shot by a very dear friend ,the hand covering known as tanzeb were in pure antique silver I sold along with a lot of other stuff as I was plumb broke and I have no regrets what has to go will go, but what hurts is I sold it when silver rates were low what I gave for Rs 10000 is today 60000 , I had rare book collections old antique cameras all picked up from the flea market I collected with passion , all went the same way, and I never profited as I sold it in distress under duress.

I never collected anything for gain , or for making a profit, it came lived with me went away I was a transit point of loss and retrospection.

I stopped collecting old stuff I completely stopped going to the flea market, going to the flea market is self induced drug and it can make you rich man or a pauper in no time..all those memories are part of my Flickr sets and photostream.

The internet destroyed a vital part of me it destroyed me as a married man, it made me a vagrant , a man who came as a photographer wrote his argumentative self glossy rant became the beggar poet of Mumbai.

And I began my internet journey in 2005 and it has been a long painful journey, those who helped me some remain some threw me at the wayside and moved away..luckily I deleted those very old blogs on a Kristalnacht of my life as a blogger started afresh, some of the old stuff hangs by a thread I never cut it loose.

I hurt people some hurt me too, but on the internet once blocked forever shy, the internet love changed the window dressing of my soul, it added drama it added adventure it aged my wife too.. a noble woman in her own accord..but the poet in me needed love to survive, love nurtured words held as feathers of my wings I needed to fly and fly I did I was all over the world , internet love made everything possible , I was with her at every click and if it was not her in came someone else and the man grew old in the soul but the poet in the mirror grew young each day, like Dorian Gray.

Ever since I was proclaimed a diabetic I stopped reading books I can hardly see the written word but yes I see eternity as brilliantly as Shivas eye embedded in my camera.And I began walking barefeet scorning Death in the face..

And without pride conceit in all humility I am amused to see the crap by eminent photographers , newspaper photographers I mean trying to emulate bloggers they cant never will because to shoot the way we do you got to fall in love you got be a poet and fuck you should know how to fly with broken wings.

I am in love again I think, because I am in love I live I blog I breathe earlier I wrote for myself read by all now I write for her read by a few I had to alter my Friends list at Flickr to write without compromising her identity or her persona..so I kept just a few trusted friends on board only 11 and I did this in good faith , God will punish me if I did wrong or I would not be confessing here.

My new poems are unreadable to the rest of my contact list..they are graphically lurid in tame way I am an erotic documentary poet too..

I had to exit Facebook , I did..but I need Facebook because some important work decisions are made there in the inbox..

So I returned last night pecking at her inbox like a prodigal bird of paradise..

And such is the poetry of my life.. and this is my last poem for her ..I have moved on from her window sill back to my own monotonous one ..

so i am finally going away
the same way i came
loving you made me
a cripple made me lame
from a barefeet poet
a beggar poet i became
covering his ego in
a fig leaf his only notoriety
to shame your love your fame
amazingly you call me sir
never by my name maybe
just once ok firoze
you poetically exclaimed
with my soul my poetry
my pathos you
played wicked game
ensnaring me in
the dark doomed
crevice of desire
cupids arrow unintentionally
or perhaps as bet with your
facebook friends you aimed
i took the consequences
all the blame

This poem is not
an autobiographical
confessional it does
not represent her
or any else like her
self same this poem
is pain undiluted pain
of loving not being loved
i disclaim i as a member
of the dead pets society
who studied at holy name
a poem about a candle
burning his soul naked
to the fury of a flame
a corrupted file
she erased deleted
into a recycle bin
of oblivion
within a time frame
ab ap chup karen sir
she politely quitcaim


I love you = jeg elsker dig

I miss you = jeg savner dig

i will never ever be the same