Thursday, April 21, 2011

Shree Daya Sagar Hanuman Mandir Bandra Bazar

Me and My Fucked World


www.youtube.com/watch?v=Gm3uM_cjcjE&NR=1

Jaane kyaa DhuuNDhti rahtii hain ye aaNkhen mujhme,
Raakh ke Dher me sholaa hai na chingaarii hai..

Ab na vo pyaar na us pyaar ki yaaden baakii
Aag yuuN dil me lagii kuchh na rahaa kuchh na bachaa
Jisakii tasviir nigaahon me liye baiThi ho
Main vo diladaar nahi usakii huuN khaamosh chitaa

Jaane kyaa DhuuNDhti rahtii hain ye aaNkhen mujhme,
Raakh ke Dher me sholaa hai na chingaarii hai..

Zindagii haNs ke guzaratii to bahut achchhaa thaa
Khair haNs ke na sahii ro ke guzar jaayegii
Raakh barabaad muhabbat kii bachaa rakhii hai
Baar-baar isko jo chheDaa to bikhar jaayegii

Jaane kyaa DhuuNDhti rahtii hain ye aaNkhen mujhme,
Raakh ke Dher me sholaa hai na chingaarii hai..

Aarazuu jurm vafaa jurm tamannaa hai gunaaha
Ye vo duniyaa hai jahaaN pyaar nahi ho sakataa
Kaise baazaar kaa dastuur tumhen samajhaauuN
Bik gayaa jo vo khariidaar nahi ho sakataa ...

Tum chale jaaoge to sochenge... Humne kya khoya, humne kya paaya..

shola aur shabnam
61

Shooting the Soul of My Cultural Heritage

181,234 items / 1,428,928 views

You are the reflection of your parental heritage , my parents were god fearing god loving but not bigots what they put in me as a seed bloomed into the fruits of their labor of love.

My parents never told me to hate Hindus , my parents did not tell me to hate Parsis or Christians , they never had thought for hate such was their struggle in life , starting our migrant roots at Kurla slums called bakhar and than assimilating a place of our lifes destination Khatau Bhuvan Wodehouse Road now Jony Castle, and this was my dad as my mom was very young, I was perhaps a year old in 1955.

As this is not a biographical blog all I want to say I am what my parents made me no venomous hate for other peoples religiosity , I dont know my attachment with this quaint laid back secluded Hanuman Mandir where the form of Hanumanji was discovered from under the ground this was all sea area once upon a time..I bought my landlord Jagdamba Tewaris brother Ram for the darshan of this Mandir.


And because the person holding my camera was having difficulty taking this shot I went back home and came back with my three and a half year old grand daughter Marziya Shakir who took shots I shall post after this lot.


And I have shot over 700 or more pictures of this temple known as Shree Daya Sagar Hanuman Mandir at Bandra Bazar road bordering a slum on three sides.


And without sounding biased after living in India all my life assimilating values traditions I would suffocate and die in a Muslim country ...I am making a general statement but I could never be comfortable in a country that treats its minorities shabbily where Sharia laws could choke the soul of Humanity in the hands of a corrupt rogue Mullah.

I am apolitical I am a follower of Imam Hussain poetically known as a Hindu Shia for the love of my Hindu culture and traditions that have helped to be a good Muslim too.

I dont expect others to be like me or think like me I am happy the way I am and would not change all this for anything in the world..

And tomorrow I will shoot the 14 Stations of the Cross show my solidarity with the Christian brethren of my city , Christian ethos that was part of my schooling and added to my life and contributed also in making me a good Muslim.

Marziya Shakir Learns the Digeridoo

A Kindly Message In My Flickr Inbox

181,197 items / 1,428,423 views

Thanks


Every frame you capture is a revelation! Thanks for sharing.

i shoot
what he shows
from a picture
the essence
of a poem grows
which he shot first
on my soul he froze
from my heart
into your heart
overflows
inundating
poetry
passion
pathos
reflected
sorrow
in repose
this world
an inn
what comes
one day
must go
on to an
untoward journey
of the mind
only god knows
cosmic
catharsis
holistically
healing
the seed
that god sows

a poet a blogger photographer doomed destiny of firoze
carrying the burden of his original sin creating calisthenics
of cybernetic chaos up close a path that he chose in
deathly throes her wet dripping body a rain goddess
with his parched tongue of desire he licks her heavenly toes

The Pain Passion of Jesus Christ

This Parrot In The Cage Is Lovesick

181,194 items / 1,428,128 views

his untimely fate
his bad luck
he fell in love
accidentally
with the
wrong chick
gazelle like neck
cleopatra nose
dewy eyes kohl laden
heart made of brick
on the whole artistic
the fucked doomed
love of a parrot prick
an accidental
poet cosmic
in her booby trap
accidentally tricked
incomplete poems
orgasmic
princess centric
a princess egocentric
a parrot poet
old sagely
eccentric
respected
revered
like a drum stick
hindu shia
ethnic
cartoon comic
she did pick
head like a
candle wick
love one sided
catastrophic karmic
across the border
a love tragic
held in the grasp
of her power
her cryptic magic
she nurtured
his pathos
his passion
his poetry
barefeet
mawkish
melodramtic
mystic
he made her laugh
he made her cry
he made her shy
he made he nervous
he made her scared
in her singular life
he caused panic
her pendulous girdle
her poetic pelvic
her nubile body
draped in a silky
fabric her visions
filled the soul
of this parrot
psychic
now bought
down to earth
from a lofty
pedestal
dirt he licks

a parrot
in a gilded cage
of a fecund
imagination
love sick

Sir


Sir, originally uploaded by firoze shakir photographerno1.

181,170 items / 1,428,052 views

The heart wants what the heart wants.

And when the heart doesn't want something, no amount of rationale or reason can or should change otherwise.

And when the heart hurts, it hurts



love
precariously
like Icarus
with broken wings
stuck to a poets
waist plunges
hits the dirt
mother earth
what is death
but a beautiful
cosmic rebirth
her memories
her tears
her pain
her sufferings
were they worth
hope that
suffocated
in the womb
of mystery
unwritten poem
died in childbirth

you want me to be someone i cant be ...Try to understand

181,170 items / 1,428,048 views

it was not
in my hands
to be what you
want me to be
fuck dont you
understand
broken wings
broken dreams
marshy wastelands
i walk barfeet
crutches of pain despair
away from your
restricted dreamland
blogging on the soul
of your innocence
a poem a drama
of my life
with a clawed
damaged
right hand
a furnace
a fire
you
accidentally
fanned
poetry
sweet heart
is not a one
night stand
nor supply
or demand
what happened
had to happen
neither you
nor i planned
hand of god
he wrote
what you
nor i
could
metaphorically
expand
you in your corner
me in my homeland

To Sir With Love Penniless Poet of Mumbai

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

Da Mir Pan And Me Shot By Marziya Shakir 3 And a Half Year Old

Da Mir Pan And Me Shot By Marziya Shakir 3 And a Half Year Old

Cooking Haleem

181,164 items / 1,427,726 views

distinctively chopped pieces
ruminatively diced pieces
of a poets heart liver and spleen
with nitric acid thoroughly
washed clean
great hygiene
she who keeps
the house clean
the mixture of raw
emotions
marinated
serene coriander
cumin onions garlic added
some freshly boiled
french beans tomato paste
'lime juice pathani cuisine
minced and ground
with soaked wheat
pure pristine
pressure cooked
till the poets mutton
turns soft and lean
served piping hot
from a tureen
to all three brothers
by an afghan queen



Clean and marinate mutton with half of ground paste of ginger, garlic, green chillies and salt for 1 hour.
Pressure cook the soaked wheat and marinated meat for about 45 minutes.
•Mince and grind to a fine paste.
•In a Pan heat oil, add the finely sliced onions, fry till brown, add the garam masala.
•Add the ground paste and keep stirring on slow flame, till the mixture leaves the sides of the pan.
•Serve hot, with lime wedges

Da Mir Pan And The Beggar Poet of Bandra Mumbai

181,147 items / 1,427,597 views

The man sitting next to Da Mir Pan is a fruit vendor , he sells fruits from house to house and he comes every day to Bandra from a far of place , I respect him because hard work too is a poem of life that connects with God and his Godliness , we are cosmically connected to each other through our individual souls caste color religion or nationality is much lower in the order in terms of our collective ethos of Humanity.

I am a beggar poet , life has come to me in a cosmic beggar bowl, moments precious semi precious fall in this bowl of existence ..and existence is subjective different to different people.

My camera makes even the unhidden come alive and like a vital chord connect with others too.

Pain is what I shoot and pain keeps me alive as much as it keeps you alive too.

The umbilical cord of life connects man with God through pain.

Sometimes I wonder why I keep falling in love , love is the only emotion that hurts when you receive and when you give or barter it too.

My beloved wont understand it.. she is a figment of my psyche she is my muse she is my poetry my passion and my pathos.

She is hope million miles away from me..traversing my soul with conceptions with her analysis that are so different from mine .. her world is more brighter than mine , I live as membrane beneath the underbelly of poetic pain.. I hurt so I live.. Death would be the end of all hurts per se.

I took Da Mir Pan home and my 3 year old grand daughter Marziya Shakir kissed his hand , mans hands are the most healing objects of his anatomy.. hands that create hands that destroy too..

She shot us both and played his didgeridoo too..strangely she has never seen one in her life but than she is highly gifted child Marziya Shakir worlds youngest street photographer who shoots with my Nikon D 80 and began her tryst with photography from the age of 2.

She learnt photography with a cloth ted around her face a blindfold actually , she learnt to feel and make the camera her slave her limb and today she has complete control over it.. photographers are born in the mothers womb only their pictures are born in the camera .. and photography is nothing but tantric kundalini unleashing energy to capture the soul of man and his surroundings.

She had shot us earlier too but she connects brilliantly with Da Mir Pan..

And so through Facebook Da Mir Pan enters my world at Flickr.com .. a complex world of blood my Shia heritage my Hindu culture and my Christian upbringing and a Jewish mentor Dr Glenn Losack MD.. my poetry my passion my pathos overriding the soul of my pictures captured by the Third Eye of Shiva.

Mumbai The City of Love Peace Hospitality

181,139 items / 1,427,579 views

My stories are as real as my pictures.


Today my dear Croatian friend Damir visited my workplace I had not seen him or Zlatko since the time I shot them at Carter Road.

They left St Peter Church and are lodging with Ollie brother of Al the Tattoo Artist of Bandra Hill Road.

Damir is a nice bloke sincere and genuine he told me Firoze what you did for us cannot be bought by money, and as an aside what I did was zilch, I had money I would have given to them but I have been going through bad troubled times emotionally financially.

I had spoken to Ollie to help them he did he is bigger in his generosity hospitality than I am.



The person sitting with us is a Bhaiyya house to house fruit vendor a nice guy too and I made him part of our world our story.


From my work space I took Damir to my house to show him the pictures I have posted on the internet via Flickr, they dont have a mobile phone nor internet access , so he was very happy he added me as his friend on Facebook too.

He was touched seeing his picture I had documented of his few cherished moments in Mumbai , they are forbidden to pay their street music at Carter Road , they can play but not collect money but they need money to help them to move on the next trip of their journey, they want a ship passage to Iran and from Iran they will cycle back to their homeland in Croatia..

And is Mumbai my beloved city that is hope for all of us.

Mumbai my city of Love Peace Hospitality.

Dancing In The Wind

Katz, Paul

Paul.Katz@ttuhsc.edu

Although I am not comfortable discussing the content of my mail on the internet owing to lots of unsolicited/Spam mails on the net these days.Anyway my message is that I have made up my mind to WILL my late Husband's funds to you so that you can use it for charity duties and good work to humanity in your country. The amount is 4million Dollars. Please get back to me on my personal and secured email address for further information.My secured email is:christinekatzpaul@gmail.com
Mrs. Christine Katz Paul.

मी मराठी Mee Marathi,

Jesus Super Christ Super Man

Mumbai Weather is Hot Horrid Humid Horrible

The Hijab Poetry of Life

The Long Hand of the Hijras on a Beggar Poets Soul

Hijras and the Beggar Poet of Mumbai

Aye Dushmane Shabbir a,s Tere Peer Pe Lanat

Ae Dushmane Shabbir tere peer par laanat O enemy of Husain, may God curse your leader Tashreek per, tashkeek per, takfeer par laanat...