A poet is Gods conscience
He describes through words Gods
Godliness extracting the beauty
Of nature mind and men
Rivers running through his pen
Metaphors, hidden unhidden
A poet crushed by financial burdens
Alimony divorce remorse all possible
Ball crushing emotions still speaks sense
Poems are giving back to God
What God gave to men
So it surprises me the contemporary poet
When he rubbishes poetry and talks non sense
I don’t have to be a Ginsburg Amichai Neruda
I don’t need to be Anselm Adam when I see
The world I live in through my lens
I write words as they flow from
My consciousness a world different from yours
So you pompous bag of air why do you take offense?
Matter over mind so dense.
Living in the glory of a Past Tense .
Unlearn the art of living and giving
Before you try mending a fence.
Come out from beneath the mask of you poetic pretense
What more can I say of your multi color hate
Is this not enough in my defense.
Monday, May 7, 2012
A poet is Gods conscience
Her swollen undeveloped nipples
a little childs mouth to wean ..
tragedy and trauma of a child mother
motherhood at fourteen
she once sold our national flag
on Independence day
at Turner Road Traffic Signal
near St Peters Church gates was seen
This year she had company
Of her new born child
Breathing selling Freedom
A dead quality
A dead virtue
In real Life
good things remain
quite a common scene
Life on the other side
Is not always green
She was gang raped
One by one drunken louts
mauled and mangled
by teenagers tough and mean
her bad luck no one did intervene
I asked her why did you not go to the cops ?
She looked at me in shock
Sadness and said Uncle they were my brothers
And my cousins how could I spill the beans?
What about your parents I asked
Oh they beat me ..but having babies is not obscene
A baby brings in more money , rented out
A life on the streets quite routine
Childhood killing machine
She requested me to shoot only her child
Mother with a hot selling womb
Motherhood at Fourteen
A click she enters your world
Through this computer screen
the whites i talk about or refer too are the racist elements and not the entire Caucasoid race ,,,so this is with malice to none ..and i wrote this when i was stalked by racist white poets at poem hunter website so please note nothing personal..
Do we really need eyes
To see truth get fucked by lies
To see hate love sodomize
To see hypocrisy desensitize
To see bombed barbarity
And not realize
That we are blind
with or without eyes
of death from the skies
A story of a soulless God
of man and mice
Leave a drowning ship
Before death comes and dies
dedicated to my wife afshaan...
This is shot from a rickshaw, and ‘Don’t Touch Me’ is inscribed on all the fare meters.
And the irony, its pathetically inscribed on her girlish soul too, I did not want to shoot this picture, the girl child mother had covered the face of the new born baby with the end of her saree , that was the picture transparent infancy,, but I disallowed the artistry , not the metaphor with which I wanted to share the picture with you, I hate manipulating real life, placing a rose near a bomb blast and shooting the extensive depth is a distorting a decisive moment.
I shoot pictures, don’t touch or disturb the underlying pain, I shoot blood , but its only an invitation for you to see the layer beneath the blood, I cut my self severly , not only because of allying with my faith , but to understand the sound of gushing blood, musical tones and as it gurgled and warmed the slopes of my cheek, I was crying and my tears purifying and diluting the sanguinity of Moharam ritual.
And once you start hearing voices pushing you to press the trigger, once you start seeing reality in dense pictorial undergrowths you have matured as a photographer.
And its a very William Blakish kind of feeling, sometimes I saw it in Tom Do You Like Its Pictures... even Scarlet Larks bench picture, some pictures grow, keep on growing in your mind till they become a part of your unthinking mechanism.
I can understand the confusion my poems cause at Poem Hunter.com, half of the idiomatic essence of my poetry lies at Flickr in the form of a pictures , the Poem hunter critic only sees the wall the windows but not what I see through a closed door.
And a poet honestly has no time or love for poetry, poetry is words that transform as pictures... if Poem hunter had an option for posting pictures, my poetry would not sound the same as I conceptualize it first as a picture.
A Flickr page is my pond, my word like fishes, my commas like little tailless tadpoles, my full stops like little snails kissing the beginning of another sentence, my insert link what connects me to her soul, than the image, the crowning glory of my webpage, tags, that brag and with a touch will open another world beyond a technocrati redemption.
And the cock teasing on the insides of my web page, feverishly pulling at the undergarments of my soul, private or public.
And Fuck am I really a poet, poets are people made of greater specter like quality , I don’t possess, I don’t want to a be a poet like that, I am a conversationalist poet, I am a talkative poet, a padlocked pedestrian poet.
I am a multi colored poet .
And the juvenile delinquency, irritatingly underscoring my seriousness, post to My Space.
And that lady with a silver chromed mask who knighted me Sir Lancelot Journaler.
And I shall post this at as a Prose Sounding Poem ,someone will tell me to tighten my prose, loosen my poetry.
From the rickshah I did see
A girl child mother hiding her new born child’s face with the end of her dappled saree..
Begging a thought that seamlessly said to be or not to be
A thought that did touch me
She was the same girl dimpled cheeks sold flags on Independence day
Now she was a mother herself fourteen years out blown in agony
A Fare meter ticking away that said Don’t Touch me
I wonder without offending God or his dark humor
Are we really born free an umbilical cord connecting us
With someone else’s destiny..
To be gang raped a few seconds agonizing pain
A Mother soon to be none to blame
But a child fucking sucked up society..
An oceanless depth that scares and bares
Our wounds that we call reality..
has a mouse as
his pet gnawing
the soul of poetry
on the internet
hitting the keys
always in her debt
her heart once
was a room to let
she kept me
The Curse Of The Hijab On The Soul of His Presidency, a photo by firoze shakir photographerno1 on Flickr.
for his people
a better future
for the upcoming
passed a verdict
changed the writing
on the wall wrote
a new text
of the hijab
the cry of
'in the right context
by the penile
head of a thorn
This was the most depressing case of a possessed girl..I could have killed myself shooting this.. it was that bad..and she was barely a teenager , but normally they say when a woman in unclean during her menstrual cycle ans breaks the sanctity of a holy place this madness or possession occurs.. there are many dos and donts not my subject I shoot pain and pure virginal pristine pain.. it is a bottle that overflows the tears of life..
why do we chain our women
why do we cause them pain
we crush their beauty and their brain
over their minds their bodies
their souls we reign
man born of a woman
sells her for gain
a prostitute her destiny
a thought so plain
manacled in chains
as she ploughs
this rough terrain
her tears her lifes story
all in vain
Helen of troy
or a plain Jane
being a woman
is a woman's bane
the blows that rain
she wont complain
within her womb
she carries her pain
a street performer
born to entertain
in mans domain
bleeding window pane
a mutilated hymen
she wont regain
Most of the women are locked up to the doors of the shrines,most of them because of their mental condition are violent prone, children hit them with rocks, as they are hitting the demon within her and sparing her woman hood...
Somebody a kinder variety pushes food on a newspaper , somebody throws a coin yes this is an amphitheater the woman fighting the gladiators of her sanity...
I shoot pain in eye ball.. most of the time their pain shoots me..
a young journalist friend som patidar told me "sir you are very emotional.'
We my kind are poet photographers we emotionalize a piece of rock..yes even rocks are worshiped as women...
I know when I was growing up in Colaba , there were notorious elements I heard who after bouts of heavy drunkenness would rape a mad woman sleeping on the streets ...nobody bothered ...she got pregnant , moved away..
ward boys , lunatic asylums , cancer hospital, womens home, womens prison, in gods home where is woman really safe in her grave or on the burning pyre..
These are depressing thoughts and I have come home for lunch...
jilted by the
man she loved
she had caressed
a devils handmaiden
her soul transgressed
a tale of a woman
time on a backfoot
pain and life
death will be her release
you have rightly guessed
Man needs an excuse to throw a woman out of doors or lock her up for life just get the sanction of society proclaim her insane ..she is gone for good ..now this is not my devils mind at work this is the harsh reality of mans dominance over woman..
woman has been burnt at the stake for giving birth to a baby with horns on his heads , woman has been burnt by the stove for more reasons than one..the only cursed element on this planet with a noose hanging around her neck is woman..
and this poem written today while updating this old post at flickr is my tribute to a girl child ..she will become a woman too and they are waiting for her head at the market square of life..
now perhaps you will understand why i listen to nohas when i blog
Slightly out of focus , but I show you pain through body language...
tuh sab ko pale
ho gaya hoon barbad
mujhe upar uthale
pe mandra rahe
hain badal kale
meri phooti kismet
pe lage hain tale
ab main karta hoon
meri akhri sas
I wrote the words now and the pain of his living death is very much alive..he had totally given up hopes and there was no streak of saving grace around..
Shrine of Hussain Tekri was built by the Nawab of Jaora, Mohammad Iftikhar Ali Khan Bahadur, in the 19th century. It is situated at Jaora in Ratlam District of Madhya Pradesh. Mohammad Iftikhar Ali Khan Bahadur has been buried in the same graveyard where Hussain Tekri was buried. In the month of Moharram thousands of people visit the place to pay their respect.
Jaora is 32 km off the main Ratlam Railway Station and to the northwest of Madhya Pradesh. The nearest airport is at Indore.
Hussain Tekri Jaorah..I am updating this set, I sometimes wonder what if I had not shot all this, this was not part of my curriculum..I had come to shoot Chehlum and nothing else but because I am a street photographer I shot a canvas of pain.
I am a poet too
this space was blank
like the blankness in
a brain dead
at hussain tekri jaorah
a spiritual hospital
of tortured souls you find
the lowest of the lowest
those with eyes
than the blind
to the fires of hell
on earth consigned
pain misery morbidity
on the streets of despair
the devils stump tree
death and doom
man mans mind
a tale of sorrow
on your soul
Well my Yahoo photos have also migrated to Flickr, these were my earlier pictures , Flickr has given me an extension of 3 months on my Pro membership....for bringing these pictures to Flickr instead of sending them to Buzznet.I have made most of them public except my mail uploads.
All these are old posts that I am updating for my friends at Facebook showing them the darkness and morbidity of the other side of the moon..I have penned poems as I see the pictures in a new light new perspective...
most of the time
life mocks man
or man mocks life
man and life
an eternal fight
sucked in a sewer
on stilts of hope
he walks alright
man an inventor
a drama of darkness
on a bombsite
man a message
the other side
man a dwarf
dedicated to man who is black and man who is white
a cosmic poet a heretic in the eyes of bigotry but a Shiite
He is in a poetic reverie beyond the pain of the thorns, here at Hussain Tekri Joarah, he pushes himself along with the thorns, his legs are inflicted with leprosy...life goes on.
He has a promise to keep life and death both a garbage heap.
life is a fucked
bed of thorns
complain too much
your life's book
behind all your
a fucked moment
you are gone
on the fucked
you are nothing
but a pawn
She has become one with my camera, she knows I know it,,she with her innocence her photogenic quality has arrested the magic mechanism of my camera, my camera is under her control .I am at her bidding.
The backdrop is as it was no cropping , no curves no levels, nothing .
Shoot me as I am she said .
Use your heart dont use your head
Be gentle be careful
her thoughts on my soul did tread
her shyness , her brashness she did shed
I took this picture went ahead
her lipstick crimson red ..
a wild orchid with no dread.
sab chod chadkar
main teri duniya se
door chala jaoonga
tuh lakh bulayegi
main palat kar
Death is the ultimate release of my poetry of life...And I eagerly wait to get a fuck of this place ..the world I live in is a mirage a robbers den , a world where cheating, robbing murder rape is a way of life and I cant transform my soul to my surroundings so I look forward to an end that like a film ending in a Bollywood scene of a dying man is taking a lot of time.I am living my death throes dramatically.
Yes these are dark thoughts , depressing thoughts I am not a part of a laughter club of poets ..I am a life member of the Dead Poets Society I want the poem of my life to end and this is my obituary..
No I am not going to slit my wrists , I do no want to make metaphoric love to a running train , I have no fear of drowning..
The only thing wrong in my picture is the grave , I have requested my family not to bury me in a Shia cemetery , I have left it to my wife and children to hand over my body to Medicine.
And I thought about this much before Mr Jyoti Basu had a desire to do the same and as a poet I will be happy if someone can see with my eyes or live with any part of my body fucked anatomy , and I doubt very much if anything could be gained as I am a severe diabetic.. my brain and my poets heart could be a collectible for all you know..the country always rewards you after your death luckily I have been a good Hindu and a good Muslim too and Jesus was never too far away .... so this my posthumous poem of life choked on the bend. I am only a speck of dust on the CCD of my lifes comatose consciousness .
Firoze Shakir Cosmic Poet Eternal Sleep
All I know is what the words know, and dead things, and that makes a handsome little sum, with a beginning and a middle and an end, as in the well-built phrase and the long sonata of the dead.
Samuel Beckett .
Mr Sardar Nawab maternal grand pa of my youngest grand daughter Zaira Saif Shakir suffered a massive heart attack last week is now recovering at the hospital..Itoo wish him a speedy recovery ..
I saw my grand daughter today after almost 10 days,,
These are pictures shot last week on the Canon EOS 60D ..and both my grand daughter Marziya Shakir and Nerjis Asif Shakir have gone for their summer holidays with their mom,. so our house is silent , the very youngest grand daughter Zaira Saif Shakir is at her mothers house , her maternal grand father suffered a massive heart attack and is recovering at the hospital.
I saw her today after almost 12 days ..
Nerjis I miss the most as we are both Malangs and share the mental rapport..
Nerjis Asif Shakir will begin shooting pictures very shortly..she has the vision the camera can wait for some more time.
I dont share my number at all . I dont wish to socialize with people I dont know Thank you for your comments ,, Blessings I am 68 yea...
Shah-e-Mardan Sher-e-Yazdan Quwat-e-Parwardigar Lafata Ila Ali La Saif Ila Zulfiqar , originally uploaded by firoze shakir photographerno1 ....
Ek Shahenshah Ne Banake Yeh Haseen Tajmahal Ham Gareebon Ki Mohabbat Ka Udaya Hai Mazak.. , a photo by firoze shakir photographerno1 on Fli...
Insan Ko Bedar Ho Lene Do Har Qaum Pukaregi Hamare Hain Hussain , a photo by firoze shakir photographerno1 on Flickr.