photo courtesy
scarletlark.buzznet.com/user/profile/
i prefer any thing
that is you..
each day
you look new..
guys
wanting to date you
in queue..
thank you
me much
said unsaid
is untrue
poems
as thoughts
of her
ensue..
love is a disillusion
like vomit i do spew.,.
her brains only the
brainless can chew
a woman into
a child out grew
thoughts i see
through and through
i pursue
her ethereal form
my soul bids
her soul adieu
disembodied
spirit a pact
renew
genius
leaves
floating
as wisdom
in an
indian brew
mind above
matter imbue
emotions
like smoke
that overflew
a pregnant
pause make
effect and cause
in this poem
overdue.
Friday, August 24, 2007
Death is Camera Shy
Today 25th of July
Death is camera shy
does not like to be
photographed
or show its human cry
wants to be
elusive reclusive
in its final good bye
photography
would turn its
truth into a naked lie
punctured pancreas
stolen heart
gouged eyes
snatched kidneys
any thing
you can buy
from the ward boy
on the sly..
the price
is not to high
at times I think
even death is too
ashamed to die
a god
with sleepy eyes
deaf ears
to sounds
of human cries.
Chaos reflected
From Mother Earth
To our
Father in the skies.
Death is camera shy
does not like to be
photographed
or show its human cry
wants to be
elusive reclusive
in its final good bye
photography
would turn its
truth into a naked lie
punctured pancreas
stolen heart
gouged eyes
snatched kidneys
any thing
you can buy
from the ward boy
on the sly..
the price
is not to high
at times I think
even death is too
ashamed to die
a god
with sleepy eyes
deaf ears
to sounds
of human cries.
Chaos reflected
From Mother Earth
To our
Father in the skies.
The Power of Love poem by waza
parents graves mohomed shakir and shamim shakir ar rehamatbad shia cemetry
wretched and ravaged behind the walls
todays' humanity and it's pitfalls
underneath fierce emotions, hell's gateway
the blood, drop for drop
my hearts' tears staccato, beat matching beat
and my soul falls to her knees
a moments' defeat...
steel don't shudder, I hear a close distant whisper
there are ways and means of coping and defense
the lost innocence, a tear worth crying
let it's splash gently fall on tender hearts
they are worth saving
innocence virginity, the last hymen broken
turn the fucking back into loving
coal hearts soon quit beating
escoriated vault walls bearing scars
slip slide, but after all the essence
the reason for being
is to nuture the genesis, hope against hope
neucleant bursting, evolution microcosmic generation... don't underestimate..
the Power Of Love
Well this Waza , the hard hitting Waza, and we share a rare relationshipof mutual trust, to be given a password to her buzz , and allowed to post a picture, and another reason too, is a pretty trusting thing to do in todays times, as photographer with an eye for the curious , I keep to myself without an iota of voyeuristic adventurism, I cannot change the perception of my wife towards Waza, but that is a kindered women feeling , I am not surprised by Indian women, they will call their husbands scums, what not, but will not share their almost dirty plate with another woman, but there are some magnanimous women, the soft hearted and acquiesing type of women , who realise the transistory nature of life and the games it plays on us, let emotions take its course and allow the other woman as part of a marital menagerie and live happily ever after.
I know an actor friend who has a wife and his wife has accepted the other woman.
The other woman is the most dreaded word in the lexicon of an Indian womans heart, my dad was snared balls and feet by the other woman, he bought her a house behind Taj Mahal Hotel, he was told that her two kids were fathered by him, but later she confessed it was the work of the house mason.
Such can be the other woman, my mom went through periods of self guilt and when my kid brother Firdaus was born in 1975 I was at my mothers bedside, and the nurses thought I was her youngest brother, such was my devotion for my mother, my dad was in the bower of the other woman.
And he was far gone in love for this woman with a commercial background and a commercial bent of mind, my dad realised all this far too late , when he discovered the nature of her various liasons , when he came across evidence pictorial and in writing , that hinted at misplaced fatherhood of her children when she was at her home town , dad I believe was seaching for a bottle of Vicks Vaporub.And Hell broke loose.
And Dad finally moved away , bequeathing the house on the 5th floor in a building behind Taj Mahal, the irony of Betrayal and Love cloisterd as sin and repentance behind Taj Mahal.
But my Dad never forgot the two children , whom at one time he had loved more than us.
My Dad died a broken hearted man, he was far too good looking, he took refuge in God , he parayed the Namaaz , like I have never seen a human pray, he begged for forgiveness and invoked God to save him and his family.
My mother by now had lost the battle and a nice woman she did not appreciate Gods divine interpretation, she became nasty, for the years of sufferings and would hit back, and the usual, "Did I not tell you she would throw you out "kind of tantrum.. Dad died in pain, he died several times, his breathing would stop , my brother Shakil who really sacrificed his entire life for us , he is younger and more responsible than I am, would rush him to the clinic next door for cleaning his congested and suffocated lungs.
But one final attack on a Friday when I was at the flea market , he breathed his last at Thawanis Nursing Home behind Taj Mahal Hotel.
My mom died soon after , now they lie side by side at the Shia cemetry at Rehmatabad, here I must mention that when Dad died I was broke and he was buried in a normal mound kind of grave called Kacchi Kabar , when my mom died I had abour RS 50000, with me , a night before I had got this money , had collected it from a client and bought it home, she was alive and asked me for whom it was.. I jokingly said it was for her.. she smiled, I paid Rs 5000 each month to my mom so when she was to be buried the Maulana Waqar Mehndi told me that we would have to bury her at another end, I lost my cool and threw a wad of money on the face of the grave digger in anger and disgust, the Maulana fearing my wrath told the gravedigger to dig the empty place next to my Dad, and this is no fairy tale, while digging he came across bones of a female body, here there was a relgious technical problem, I told the Maulana to let her bones lie by the feet of my Mom, thus lie buried my mom my dad and another woman.
And I utilised the entire Rs 50000 on the granite mausoleum I built for them.. also paid the money for making the graves permanent, and all of us brothers and sisters got together and called each other United Seven Shakirs , a month later and this is not a property issue but some religious faux pas of a funereal ritual on the part of my wife instigated by a conniving cousin from Lucknow , my verbal fight with my brother Shakil, and we parted , all of us, and we have the same blood flowing in our veins... we behave as step siblings, and this is the dreadful part of Humanity.
And the greater hurt is that even our kids dont recognize each others kids.
And I write this for my unborn grandchild.
the moral of this story ... power of love in death..and after death.
wretched and ravaged behind the walls
todays' humanity and it's pitfalls
underneath fierce emotions, hell's gateway
the blood, drop for drop
my hearts' tears staccato, beat matching beat
and my soul falls to her knees
a moments' defeat...
steel don't shudder, I hear a close distant whisper
there are ways and means of coping and defense
the lost innocence, a tear worth crying
let it's splash gently fall on tender hearts
they are worth saving
innocence virginity, the last hymen broken
turn the fucking back into loving
coal hearts soon quit beating
escoriated vault walls bearing scars
slip slide, but after all the essence
the reason for being
is to nuture the genesis, hope against hope
neucleant bursting, evolution microcosmic generation... don't underestimate..
the Power Of Love
Well this Waza , the hard hitting Waza, and we share a rare relationshipof mutual trust, to be given a password to her buzz , and allowed to post a picture, and another reason too, is a pretty trusting thing to do in todays times, as photographer with an eye for the curious , I keep to myself without an iota of voyeuristic adventurism, I cannot change the perception of my wife towards Waza, but that is a kindered women feeling , I am not surprised by Indian women, they will call their husbands scums, what not, but will not share their almost dirty plate with another woman, but there are some magnanimous women, the soft hearted and acquiesing type of women , who realise the transistory nature of life and the games it plays on us, let emotions take its course and allow the other woman as part of a marital menagerie and live happily ever after.
I know an actor friend who has a wife and his wife has accepted the other woman.
The other woman is the most dreaded word in the lexicon of an Indian womans heart, my dad was snared balls and feet by the other woman, he bought her a house behind Taj Mahal Hotel, he was told that her two kids were fathered by him, but later she confessed it was the work of the house mason.
Such can be the other woman, my mom went through periods of self guilt and when my kid brother Firdaus was born in 1975 I was at my mothers bedside, and the nurses thought I was her youngest brother, such was my devotion for my mother, my dad was in the bower of the other woman.
And he was far gone in love for this woman with a commercial background and a commercial bent of mind, my dad realised all this far too late , when he discovered the nature of her various liasons , when he came across evidence pictorial and in writing , that hinted at misplaced fatherhood of her children when she was at her home town , dad I believe was seaching for a bottle of Vicks Vaporub.And Hell broke loose.
And Dad finally moved away , bequeathing the house on the 5th floor in a building behind Taj Mahal, the irony of Betrayal and Love cloisterd as sin and repentance behind Taj Mahal.
But my Dad never forgot the two children , whom at one time he had loved more than us.
My Dad died a broken hearted man, he was far too good looking, he took refuge in God , he parayed the Namaaz , like I have never seen a human pray, he begged for forgiveness and invoked God to save him and his family.
My mother by now had lost the battle and a nice woman she did not appreciate Gods divine interpretation, she became nasty, for the years of sufferings and would hit back, and the usual, "Did I not tell you she would throw you out "kind of tantrum.. Dad died in pain, he died several times, his breathing would stop , my brother Shakil who really sacrificed his entire life for us , he is younger and more responsible than I am, would rush him to the clinic next door for cleaning his congested and suffocated lungs.
But one final attack on a Friday when I was at the flea market , he breathed his last at Thawanis Nursing Home behind Taj Mahal Hotel.
My mom died soon after , now they lie side by side at the Shia cemetry at Rehmatabad, here I must mention that when Dad died I was broke and he was buried in a normal mound kind of grave called Kacchi Kabar , when my mom died I had abour RS 50000, with me , a night before I had got this money , had collected it from a client and bought it home, she was alive and asked me for whom it was.. I jokingly said it was for her.. she smiled, I paid Rs 5000 each month to my mom so when she was to be buried the Maulana Waqar Mehndi told me that we would have to bury her at another end, I lost my cool and threw a wad of money on the face of the grave digger in anger and disgust, the Maulana fearing my wrath told the gravedigger to dig the empty place next to my Dad, and this is no fairy tale, while digging he came across bones of a female body, here there was a relgious technical problem, I told the Maulana to let her bones lie by the feet of my Mom, thus lie buried my mom my dad and another woman.
And I utilised the entire Rs 50000 on the granite mausoleum I built for them.. also paid the money for making the graves permanent, and all of us brothers and sisters got together and called each other United Seven Shakirs , a month later and this is not a property issue but some religious faux pas of a funereal ritual on the part of my wife instigated by a conniving cousin from Lucknow , my verbal fight with my brother Shakil, and we parted , all of us, and we have the same blood flowing in our veins... we behave as step siblings, and this is the dreadful part of Humanity.
And the greater hurt is that even our kids dont recognize each others kids.
And I write this for my unborn grandchild.
the moral of this story ... power of love in death..and after death.
A Temple of Hope and a Dead poet
I was coming from Juhu and shot a set of pictures on flash,but it got badly messed , this one picture was the saving grace, but I went again this morning and shot a few more, as this temple excites me, the numerous bells, each has a story of an accomplished wish, and here I could feel the stirrings of a story, a wretched poet, comes to a temple and , while his head is in devotion to Lord Hanuman, and he is fervently praying , for his poems to be published , he has the entire lot in his satchel, in his utter haste and confusion , he forgets the satchel at the temple.
He rushes home and , realises his folly , he immediately takes the train back to the temple, as was his bad luck , while crossing the railway tracks ,his foot slips and he is crushed to death, no next of kin, an accidental death, a mere number... soon forgotten like all other deaths that takes place on railway tracks.
In the meantime the satchel is found by the daughter of the priest, she is mesmerized by the deathly thoughts that form the nerve centre of the poems.
She dare not tell her father, for within the dark thoughts is a lingering light of Hope, a hope that had many a times decieved our dead poet, the stark reality of the satchel , there was no hint of an address, only sheaves of crumpled paper, every part of the paper had been utilised to the maximum, the satchel had a train ticket to Mira Road return, a little crumpled paper bag of uneaten peanuts.
The priest s daughter kept the satchel of poems for quite some time hoping the poet would return ,time passed one day a few days before she was to get married, she went to the Gateway of India and placing a few heavy rocks in the satchel, she placed it into the waters... never looked back once..
Life is prose that reverberates the rythm and pain of an orphaned poetry , words flowing away ... from the shores of Gateway of India to another distant world to lash the walls that surround the nothingmess of her soul.
I went and placed a little bell for the accomplishment of this story at Ghanteshwar Temple and for the soul of the dead poet.
He rushes home and , realises his folly , he immediately takes the train back to the temple, as was his bad luck , while crossing the railway tracks ,his foot slips and he is crushed to death, no next of kin, an accidental death, a mere number... soon forgotten like all other deaths that takes place on railway tracks.
In the meantime the satchel is found by the daughter of the priest, she is mesmerized by the deathly thoughts that form the nerve centre of the poems.
She dare not tell her father, for within the dark thoughts is a lingering light of Hope, a hope that had many a times decieved our dead poet, the stark reality of the satchel , there was no hint of an address, only sheaves of crumpled paper, every part of the paper had been utilised to the maximum, the satchel had a train ticket to Mira Road return, a little crumpled paper bag of uneaten peanuts.
The priest s daughter kept the satchel of poems for quite some time hoping the poet would return ,time passed one day a few days before she was to get married, she went to the Gateway of India and placing a few heavy rocks in the satchel, she placed it into the waters... never looked back once..
Life is prose that reverberates the rythm and pain of an orphaned poetry , words flowing away ... from the shores of Gateway of India to another distant world to lash the walls that surround the nothingmess of her soul.
I went and placed a little bell for the accomplishment of this story at Ghanteshwar Temple and for the soul of the dead poet.
Eternal Pain
picture shot by afshaan firoze shakir
Pain
Eternal Pain
captured by my wife
Afshaan picto-reality
of her boatswain
a heart
that has no
bearings on brain
a marriage of
convenience
was it
all in vain
bound by a single
pain
she loves me
i imagine
i dream
i love
the wife
of another
boatswain
karmic chain
dharma drain
thus
we remain
live
love
and
live
and
feign
both
bound
to the other
by
an eternal pain
blood
stained
glass
on a window pane
medicine wheel
with a broken
chain
a life time
captured
in a single grain
a heart blasted
on a moving train
dedicated to a brainless art of a poet
Pain
Eternal Pain
captured by my wife
Afshaan picto-reality
of her boatswain
a heart
that has no
bearings on brain
a marriage of
convenience
was it
all in vain
bound by a single
pain
she loves me
i imagine
i dream
i love
the wife
of another
boatswain
karmic chain
dharma drain
thus
we remain
live
love
and
live
and
feign
both
bound
to the other
by
an eternal pain
blood
stained
glass
on a window pane
medicine wheel
with a broken
chain
a life time
captured
in a single grain
a heart blasted
on a moving train
dedicated to a brainless art of a poet
History wont forgive you Bush and Blair
google images
photo courtesy
newsimg.bbc.co.uk/media/images/39505000/jpg/_39505846_.bu...
Bush and Blair
A unique pair
Enjoined brothers
Asymmetrical
Weapons of mass
Destruction
Of a New Warfare
Steal and Share
Divide and Tear
Human values
Sovereignty
of a country
a fuck they care
Israel drops
bombs
governmental terrorism
death from air
war declare
Lebanese look up
In despair
to the heavens
in prayer
God don’t care
Fuck unfair
World
Eunuch
body
nelsons eye
to this affair
just watch and stare
broken limbs
swollen souls
wounds that
will out wear
fuck don’t care
man a machine
will self repair
a medalled general
custodian
of a terrorist lair
all the clues
in an Indian snare
lashkare e tauba
fuck who cares
Bush and Blair
two sides
of an evil coin
fuck who cares
next election
empty hopes
empty stares
history
wont forgive you
Bush and Blair
warmongering
among your wares
dedicated to a fallen man in the eyes of God
these are my older poems
photo courtesy
newsimg.bbc.co.uk/media/images/39505000/jpg/_39505846_.bu...
Bush and Blair
A unique pair
Enjoined brothers
Asymmetrical
Weapons of mass
Destruction
Of a New Warfare
Steal and Share
Divide and Tear
Human values
Sovereignty
of a country
a fuck they care
Israel drops
bombs
governmental terrorism
death from air
war declare
Lebanese look up
In despair
to the heavens
in prayer
God don’t care
Fuck unfair
World
Eunuch
body
nelsons eye
to this affair
just watch and stare
broken limbs
swollen souls
wounds that
will out wear
fuck don’t care
man a machine
will self repair
a medalled general
custodian
of a terrorist lair
all the clues
in an Indian snare
lashkare e tauba
fuck who cares
Bush and Blair
two sides
of an evil coin
fuck who cares
next election
empty hopes
empty stares
history
wont forgive you
Bush and Blair
warmongering
among your wares
dedicated to a fallen man in the eyes of God
these are my older poems
Presidential Neck Rub
my old poems
photo courtesy
www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/object/article?f=/c/a/2006/07/19/M...
At the G8 Political Masseur club
In St Petersburg
Angela Merckel a flowering shrub
Gave the world a hands raised snub
That no Isreaeli bombing can drub
A Hezbollah like feely touchy neck rub
From the Prez of America a single spoke
As a prominent Nub
To all the Wars Of the World
That have him as a hub.
Man superman and cub
Ya Rub (god)
My poem dedicated as a rubbed in political thought
photo courtesy
www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/object/article?f=/c/a/2006/07/19/M...
At the G8 Political Masseur club
In St Petersburg
Angela Merckel a flowering shrub
Gave the world a hands raised snub
That no Isreaeli bombing can drub
A Hezbollah like feely touchy neck rub
From the Prez of America a single spoke
As a prominent Nub
To all the Wars Of the World
That have him as a hub.
Man superman and cub
Ya Rub (god)
My poem dedicated as a rubbed in political thought
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
-
Shah-e-Mardan Sher-e-Yazdan Quwat-e-Parwardigar Lafata Ila Ali La Saif Ila Zulfiqar , originally uploaded by firoze shakir photographerno1 ....
-
Dargah of Hazrat Syed Ali Mira Datar Unava Gujrat , a photo by firoze shakir photographerno1 on Flickr. HAZRAT SYED ALI MIRA DATAR'S G...
-
The Madariya Sufi Order Of India - Dam Madar Malangs , a photo by firoze shakir photographerno1 on Flickr. From Wikipedia, the free encyclo...
