Friday, June 22, 2007

Dont flush me at once

This picture was not taken by me..
I dont take credit for for what is not mine
And mine cannot be.
Street Photography in a loo
Is just not me..

Stuck in a land of no return..
The best of me in watery urn
As a Toilet Blogger
I have lot to learn..
And it is from Indians
That the West was won.

And hit by shit on my face
My love war has just begun.
A bald head, hands bejewelled
The Stigma of being
Photographerno1.
And a worms eye view,,
Of the most beautiful posterior
Under the sun.
Dont get mad
Have fun.
Pray to God for motions
and the runs.
And dont , dont flush me
At once.
By -

I never was a Poet you made me One

A little speck of dirt lodged in her eye,
She thought she would wipe it away
Before it made her cry.
Enbalmed to her soul
Is my love on a clothesline
Kissing and flapping seductively to dry.
Her body belongs to her beloved
Her spirit mingles with mine.
She is someone elses sun
I live off her sunshine.
I Love you ...Yes I do
And to my harboured thoughts resign.
What is poetry but sweetened prose
Wombless umbilically connected to her online.
I never was a poet you made me one...
Rubbing salt to my wounds
Scars on my Indian back that pine
And bleed tear drops
That taste like Italian Wine.
By -

Eternalized to Despair.

Archived as brutalized bricks in the mansions of her heart.
Contemptuously criticized moments before they fall.
Running streams of tears..hoping for a recall.
moisture less dry, like wrinkles in a shawl.

Silent , silently conceived,unashamed to overhaul.
Eternalized to despair..despaired to eternity all in all.
Dwarfed outrage unenthused wont enthrall.
Leisurely waiting to embrace a deathly pall.

Picture shot by me at the British Residency Lucknow ...the most photogenic and ever compliable model is my hand.
By -

Me Icarus Fallen In Love

photo courtesy google images

She wears a wantonly sensuous burkha (veil) of delight
She won’t allow her face to be seen in spectered light.

Her curvaceous form is a pleasure to my ‘cataracted’ sight.
Blossoms of her laden fruit a pompous posterior very tight.

And her silken slippery lips like juicy apple bites.
And her blushing brown eyes..Eye lashed to my insight


And she fades away each time I touch her bosom..
Like a baby fawn in fright..
Me a web-footed woozy wobbly dwarf
She my poetically sleeping Snow White.


And this is what love does to me..Internetted.. And wired is my plight..
Pushed by Daedalus me Icarus falling from a great height.

Just once, only once my crushed skull on her bedsite.
I will finally get to sleep ..merged in the darkness of her night.
By -

Unloquacious Locked Door

He stands sentinel at her locked door ,
She knows.. sri shakir.. photographerno1
Sri sri jagatguru, pakshgiri sri sri firoze.

Her computer has the runs,, that too she knows
Burning fever rising temperature.. adds to her woes.
And he stupidly follows her wherever she goes.


Pride and vanity the wind that humanly blow.
Radiohumped tuned in to a friend who is not a foe.
A shoot .. wedged into a sapling that cannot grow.


Perhaps in another planet some other time..
She will come up from below.
And open her unloquacious locked door.

And one legged barefoot ,bald, eyes closed photographer
Who accidently fell off a Bollywood fashion store.

Some other time some other place I will tell you some more.
Speech therapy, yogistically I preach to a unloquacious locked door.

This was shot by my wife Mrs Afshaan Shakir at Ghanta Ghar Lucknow
By -

Peace a Venus on the Mound.

Shot and missed by the wife
Unperturbed
Precariously perched on a window sill
Shot by another arrow in the eye
Limping on a leg,
broken wings and cannot fly.
A dove in love
Electrified to internet wires.
To read page cannot be dispayed
To sigh and die.

Or a leopards leap from her heart to the ground.
And an epitaph on his tombstone
Server cannot be found.
Photographerno1.
Unsound.
Death even thy sting
Is not profound.
Prometheus..
In the grave unbound.
Whorling round and round
Peace Pulp Fictioned
A Venus on the Mound.
By -

The Terrible Door by Harold Monro

The Terrible Door
Too long outside your door I shivered
You open it I will not stay.
I am haunted by your ashen beauty.
Take back your hand I have gone away.

Dont talk but move to the near corner.
I loathe the long cold shadow here.
We will stand in a moment in the lamplight,
Until I watch you hard and near.

Happy release! Goodbye forever!
Here at the corner we say good bye.
But if you want me , if you do need me,
Who waits at the terrible door but I.

by Harold Monro....


Sometimes I feel amazed...
she has the key
I am locked inside..
She is the one to whom I confide
Her I seek and from her I hide.
Peace to a Peaceful man
undenied
poetry to a photographer
as pictures cried
on the emulsion of his soul
burnt dodged bromide..
By -
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