Wednesday, July 31, 2013

We Indians Dream Of A Better Tomorrow

hope we continuously
beg steal or borrow
we are entrenched
in warfare with sorrow
back to where we
were day after
tomorrow ..

Sometimes In India Even God Cant Save The Girl Child ..

to death much
before she was
before she could
bloom  she is gone
robbed of her inherent
innocence her beauty
before she sees dawn
wingless creature
none to mourn
considered devi
goddess yet
raped sodomized
acid thrown on her face
that once shone
fodder supply on demand
for titillating porn..
on her body lying
on a cold  morgue
table lone forlorn
caught between
human lust devilish
scorn...and i can
go on and on

My Pictures Are Too Ordinary For Picture Walls

i shoot hope
in closed eyes
of blind beggars
your senses
assault i shoot
human beings
reptilian legs
that toddle crawl
i shoot wobbly
legs that stand
as they fall
i shoot beggars
drunken brawls
i shoot whores
at peels house
painted dolls
men dressed
as hijras at
on phone call
i shoot vermin
i shoot garbage
porn.. i shoot
faceless silence
of crumbling walls
i shoot lepers
hidden in tattered
shawls .i shoot
my inner angst
not found on
facebook walls
what i shoot is
finger fucked
all balls ..

beggars are the only indigenous export from India nobody wants

our beggars
a kind of
the deformed
veneer flaunt
our beggars
are humble
home grown
dont taunt
we could
export them
to other holy
cities of
the world
but our
you export
our beggars
you have
to export
those who
feed beggars
at roadside
our beggars
will only eat
their food
a question
of detente
a political question
before India and Arabs
a thought that haunts

The Only Thing The Beggar Does Not Need To Beg For Is Babies..

the only job
he knows best
in and out
drunken dilemma
when the lights
go out
screwing his
wife babies
wrestling bout
babies bring
in more money
no doubt
drugged mutilated
the  burnt hand
of the child
he pulls out  at traffic
signals with a
 in hand is what it
is about,, mother
fucking lout
extra money
from extra mouths
he hates people
like me who shoot him
at his regular hangouts
a poetic tragedy
for the child
a travesty of fate
totally worn out

ps ... he is wearing a head scarf pretending to be a muslim beggar during ramzan phase out

This Child Has A Dream..

madam all sprayed
perfumed ..inside her
car sees the dregs of
society untouchables
from far the mahim
traffic signal snarl.
hating every moment
the filth squalor
demeaning dehumanizing
the pristine whiteness
of her jaguar the girl child
staring into her cold
eyes a scene bizarre
she would give her
soul away but not her
money to be transported
back to her ladies bar
with her socialite friends
kitty partyladies of khar

Muscular dystrophy

the muslim beggar
of destiny cant
move his hands
legs no part free
held in chains
bound by
he cannot
talk walk
eat you
can see
in the rains
a plastic rain
coat for cover
for his guardian
he is source
of money
this is bandra
to a muslim
boys weakening
on bent knees
at jamat e
jj colony
a beggars
lane on
our municipal
give the
poor a hand
let them die
ramzan mubarak
eid mubarak
to all sundry


Hunger by firoze shakir photographerno1
Hunger, a photo by firoze shakir photographerno1 on Flickr.

I shot this lady and her child a lot, her beat was the stretch across the Bandra Hill Road Police Station , and she wandered from one end of this road to the other end in search of food money or nourishment.

Its been two years now since I moved away from this location , and like her there was another Muslim mother and child I shot , including a new baby she got and she begged because her husband could not make ends meet..I normally dont talk to the subjects I shoot , but sometimes I would ask them , why they did no search for a job , but I gathered begging was a tiring job , sometimes luckless but was far better than being employed , and it appeared it was too late to remove the beggary from their depleted souls.

Once a beggar always a beggar and nowadays I dont carry my camera at all, and I shoot beggars all the time with my cosmic eye and mind and improvise my imaginary shots ..

I regret not having my camera on my person when I see Dabbawalas drenched to the bone riding their bikes near Bandra Bazar Road .. but I have no feeling I have killed all my feelings for photography, it is not important , and photography is not the essence of my being , it does not make me or break me I was human much before the camera came into my hands.

I have moved away from shooting stuff ..I dont want to shoot pictures get insulted humiliated , so I stopped shooting events of my own religiosity .. I shoot Moharam in other cities I shoot a lot of Hindu events simply because people of other religiosity give you respect , give you space and shit I dont need to shoot pictures to make money or prove that I am a Shia born Muslim.. picture taking is a hobby , and will always be secondary to my life.

So I began teaching my grand kids to shoot pictures , beggars people and hope above all things , my grand daughters now see frames before they see a picture and shoot it and they are like me , not excited or kicked up about the camera..

And I titled this post hunger ..poetically metaphorically philosophically ..when the child is hungry he will cry , mother will place him on her chest and fuel his hunger , but now when the mother feels hunger pangs , she goes to the dustbin of eateries close by and empties out the left overs in her bag ...Hunger ..

Yes I shoot pictures with my cosmic eye as you see them on reading my words ..

And mind you this is not a picture but a blog.. a poets blog about the poetry of pain and the poetry of life typed by a single finger of a damaged hand ..I cut my head during Moharam.. I bleed I feel pain too but it is not hunger it is my Faith that moves Mountains within my own scarred Soul..

Today is 21 Ramzan.. I am at home .. and the camera is at home too.. I took my grand daughter Nerjis down she is not well and her parents could not calm her so I took charge ..

I Told Them To Make My Coffin Sound Proof

once my body
or whatever
comes back
from hospital
as dead cadaver
to place me in the
coffin throw me
in the sea far aloof
as i am wet proof
no i dont seek a tomb
a shade or a roof
no fatahs in a cemetery
once gone no spoof
i dont seek a paradise
i need no proof..
my blogs my pictures
my poetry from cyberspace
my next of kin can remove
my will testimonial signed
approved ....
the flesh was weak
the soul wont improve

deleted doomed

Muslim Beggars Of India On Display

in every city
town village
street lane
a skull cap
a burkha
on friday
blind leprous
with bodily
call it
you pay
rain comes
goes away
beggars pain
eternal in
every way
muslim beggars
in ramzan swell
proliferate as
hope begets
their cries
prayers ..
their wares
broken wings
scattered tears
gasping for air

When An Indian Male Does Not Get The Woman He Wants He Either Throws Acid .. Burns Her Rapes Her Or Makes Her Mad

most of the women
you see on the roads
shabbily dressed
they were once
a mans conquest
once he got what
he wanted her house
her wealth he threw her
in a madhouse
know the rest -
indians are basically
cowards ..pretend to
be the bravest
throwing acid on
women getting
away because of
lax laws an issue
never easily
gang raping
selling her
of as a
what next..

In India Once A Beggar Always A Beggar

the beggar
makes more
money earns more
than a graduate
i know of
beggars who
are moneylenders
charging hefty
interests to those
who are chronic
gamblers whore masters
drug peddlers and the rest
beggars without college
degrees vying with the best
deformed , disfigured you
might detest ,, but beggars
are clever smart shrewdest
some beggars have their
own beggar employees
recruited during religious fest
they pay hafta to the cops
local goons and in properties invest
during ramzan at their
iftar parties even politicians
are guests ..beggars are kings
know the law , unless they
commit a crime you cannot
arrest ..thanks to the syndicate
they are totally blessed ..

Rainy Day In Chennai

The Deformed Beggar With Flat Curved Legs - Dhai Djinn Ka Jhopda Ajmer

Matam For The Martyrdom of Imam Ali Recited By Marziya Shakir -21 Ramzan

Mourning the Martyrdom of Imam Ali

On the 19th of Ramadan, while praying in the Great Mosque of Kufa, ImamAli was attacked by the Khawarij Abd-al-Rahman ibn Muljam. He was wounded by ibn Muljam's poison-coated sword while prostrating in the Fajr prayer.[109] Imam Ali ordered his sons not to attack the Kharijites, instead stipulating that if he survived, ibn Muljam would be pardoned whereas if he died, ibn Muljam should be given only one equal hit (regardless of whether or not he died from the hit).[110]
Imam Ali died a few days later on January 31, 661 (21 Ramadan 40 A.H).[109]Imam Hasan fulfilled Qisas and gave equal punishment to ibn Muljam upon Imam Ali's death.[

Appu My Friend ... No Arms No Legs

we cry
if have
no shoes
we cry if
have no
till we
a man
on the
with no
no feet
appu my friend
fighting back
in defeat
his fate
as a cosmic
iconic beggar
he could not
cheat ..a tree
stump small
petite extremely
human kind
polite very sweet
lapping his
food holding
the plate
in his teeth
is how he
eats or drinks
his tea holding
the glass in his
mouth like
an athlete
but i beg of
you be
dont ask
me how
he sits
or excrete
tears on
the toilet
seat ..
or when
flies bite him
in mumbai
dust and heat
braving the
rains cloudburst
floods ..what
a feat ..
appu my
i repeat

Nerjis Has Her Fishes In Marziyas Fish Tank ...