"fakir" poems
Feel empty in your post apocalyptic City of Angels,
Where not even your pets are real!
An electric android, a sheep or a frog,
The whir-flutter of micro-electrical wings of a butterfly.
Good, and so you ought.
Now grab the handles of your empathy box,
And in a shared virtual hallucination –
Feel: empathy, depression, pain, delusion and despair,
The outré myriad gifts of consciousness.
Billions of discombobulated and disconnected wrecks:
Adam's sons; Eve's daughters,
And among them simulations too,
Fakes! androids!
A phony circuit of implanted semi-conscious memories,
A hive of neural malaise!
Welcome to our world;
know how dead inside I am.
You, yes, you:
Need a pet to make you more complete?
Maybe you can afford
A Fake Fakir Flake like me who looks like Jude Law,
Sounds like Richard Burton,
And silently romances you like Rudolph Valentino.
Come and stick what’s left of your mind,
In here,
In hair,
Hear her:
har, har, har…
A box of lies...
A voice, Mercer's,
With texture from an age you neither lived in nor dared in:
Al Jerry's, a TV actor,
Droning on in pre-selected tones.
The real thing, the men, the women, the children - their animals -
Made in the wild, wild desert,
In the green pulsing savannah,
On the open crusted sea;
Now too, washed, choked, and drained,
Too many spliced and diced mutations,
Iterating your image:
The thing that was my heart,
My Child, now its imitation.
Oct 15, 2017
Oct 15, 2017 at 7:42 AM UTC
A fueling, flashing fulgent, furnace, fulgurous, frothy, fumes and feathery flakes,
I do not speak of waves of snow, hoary frost, or ice, a cold gelare or even frozen lakes!
Formidable, furrows, fructifying, functioning fruition to foremost fondly found a flaming,
I revel not in such destruction but choices for my naming!
For flowers flow fields forever, forswearing funneling fjords finitely, fire fray’s forests furthermost,
Instructing in the arts of language, for I am your gracious host!
Fakir formulates factious forms fading flummoxed into fury, a fugacious fusible and furtive fleeting feigning furiosity,
A deep ditch dug, tight as pug, wrapped blanket snub though not a flub, all perspicacity!
Finds frosty frore a frozen freezing faction for fusty flaming feasance,
Fomorian fantasy of formidable faggoting, facient up to fancying, fancying, furnaced flesh fluidity finds itself factitivity, facets for fabulists from the faint familiarity,
Relating cold to heat as such, requires but a human touch, apologize I do you see for all my clueless severity!
Fans of all the falconry, who fallow fields of family, falter for a fallacy, falling into infamy as forgone flame frontogenesis, fatigues a Faustian felony, for which fate finds is fastigiated foolery, febrile features featly and yet furiously, favonian fear of fellowship fiendishly, figures foal to fatherly, finally fiddle flinchingly, although not so too furtively;
I finagle in my filigree!
Jun 20, 2016
Jun 20, 2016 at 1:13 PM UTC
Macavity’s a Mystery Cat: he’s called the Hidden Paw—
For he’s the master criminal who can defy the Law.
He’s the bafflement of Scotland Yard, the Flying Squad’s despair:
For when they reach the scene of crime—Macavity’s not there!
Macavity, Macavity, there’s no on like Macavity,
He’s broken every human law, he breaks the law of gravity.
His powers of levitation would make a fakir stare,
And when you reach the scene of crime—Macavity’s not there!
You may seek him in the basement, you may look up in the air—
But I tell you once and once again, Macavity’s not there!
Macavity’s a ginger cat, he’s very tall and thin;
You would know him if you saw him, for his eyes are sunken in.
His brow is deeply lined with thought, his head is highly doomed;
His coat is dusty from neglect, his whiskers are uncombed.
He sways his head from side to side, with movements like a snake;
And when you think he’s half asleep, he’s always wide awake.
Macavity, Macavity, there’s no one like Macavity,
For he’s a fiend in feline shape, a monster of depravity.
You may meet him in a by-street, you may see him in the square—
But when a crime’s discovered, then Macavity’s not there!
He’s outwardly respectable. (They say he cheats at cards.)
And his footprints are not found in any file of Scotland Yard’s.
And when the larder’s looted, or the jewel-case is rifled,
Or when the milk is missing, or another Peke’s been stifled,
Or the greenhouse glass is broken, and the trellis past repair—
Ay, there’s the wonder of the thing! Macavity’s not there!
And when the Foreign Office finds a Treaty’s gone astray,
Or the Admiralty lose some plans and drawings by the way,
There may be a scap of paper in the hall or on the stair—
But it’s useless of investigate—Macavity’s not there!
And when the loss has been disclosed, the Secret Service say:
“It must have been Macavity!”—but he’s a mile away.
You’ll be sure to find him resting, or a-licking of his thumbs,
Or engaged in doing complicated long division sums.
Macavity, Macavity, there’s no one like Macacity,
There never was a Cat of such deceitfulness and suavity.
He always has an alibit, or one or two to spare:
And whatever time the deed took place—MACAVITY WASN’T THERE!
And they say that all the Cats whose wicked deeds are widely known
(I might mention Mungojerrie, I might mention Griddlebone)
Are nothing more than agents for the Cat who all the time
Just controls their operations: the Napoleon of Crime!
5k
reverence in poetry. everything to every person.
reader claims they can a necessary skill for
uncover the reverence. successful hypothecating and
in the scripts that (buying)poetry-creation outta nothing,
life straight hands me, tell them what thy want to hear,
for collection & correction, and they’ll call you laureate,
secretarial transcribing, instead of good listener
binding, typo correction or just a keen observer-fakir
mundane are the tasks, just take what they give ya,
that’s all them muses ask, dress it like Joseph in a
don’t interfere, taken what’s given, coat of many colors,
bow, curtsy, show respect, don’t let on your plagiarism
treat its aspects/instincts correctly is all them, redressed legally
you’re just the pass through agent, true you, gotta be smart about it,
patient for no payment expected, variant spellings, swinging verbs,
be our adherent, not our truant, be discreet, they’ll call your script
we appoint don’t disappoint, a real keeper and give love or sun,
accept our patent, render legit mucho poem emojis accoladeya
as for this reverence thinge devil in a blue dress, walk the streets
if I do my job ok, on any day, grabbing snatches of overhearings,
any poem could save a life, pressed into a single tunic, you think,
if I get the commas placed, he a genius, knows my thinking,
just right, the periods period, exactly, what a great poet and
while obeying the speed limit con/hu-man par excellent
them muses so **** pleased even fool muses, too full themselves,
by this true confession released, muses who think we stink and
and self deprecation, couldn’t do it without them
they call me reverend, great pretenders by stealing
imagine them silly folk, everything in everybody and
calling a big fat liar. all thieves and cape riders,
reverend, duh, the end original liars, pants on fire
before midnight and after 3:20am April 7~8, two oh nineteen
any message you send becomes my intellectual property, fool....
Apr 8, 2019
Apr 8, 2019 at 5:24 AM UTC
Unke, nigahon, se nikali, jo teer
Dil se, ** gaye, bas hum, fakir
Aasman mein, saje, kahkashan
Nek, iradon se, hua, phir nikaah
Khwab aur haqueekat, ki hui, takkar
Bechara, dil ka mausam, hua patjhar
Unke, zubaan se, ab, nikalte, hai teer
Aur, ab, ho gaye hai, hum, jeb se fakir
Jan 15, 2015
Jan 15, 2015 at 9:29 AM UTC
Soyi soyi si hai zindagi
Koyi bewaqt awaaz na de
Kismat meri ruthi si hai
Magar ankh khul jati hai
Tere ek ehesaas se...
***
Life is almost at a sleep stage
No one even gives a call
My fate is upset, yet willing
As my eyes opens
From the unusual feeling
***
Saaye se bhi, waja puch le
Ki darpar dastak kiyu nahi karti
Zalim dil soh nahi pata
Raato ki beraham tanhayiyan
Har waqt tujhe pukarti...
***
Ask the shadow the reasons
Why it doesn't show up these days
This wrenched heart, cannot sleep
In the loneliness of night
Calls for you, then starts to weep
***
Farista ban gaye ** ya fakir
Likhte hi nahi ** mere naseeb
Ek tutta tara, aine mei dekha
Khoobsurat sa chahera
Har baar rutha...
***
Have you become an angel or a saint
You no longer write my fate
A shooting star, on the mirror sighted
A beautiful face
Saddened yet delighted...
***
©sim
Jul 29, 2017
Jul 29, 2017 at 11:22 PM UTC
Beden sükun içinde yatar yeşil türbede,
Amma güzel diliniz konuşur mesnevide.
Ey hazreti Mevlana Celaleddin-i Rumi,
Hazreti Şems güneştir size, siz aydır Şemse.
O pak mesnevi içinde neler buldum, neler,
Süzünüz bir deryadır, her şey vardır içinde.
Her kese açıktır bu derya, fakir ya zengin,
Ders, güzellik ile hikmet katarsınız şiire.
Allah'u Teala çok razı olsun sizinle,
Mahvî'nin süsü bu, helal olsun bu kaside.
Dec 20, 2016
Dec 20, 2016 at 8:39 AM UTC
I had an Indian Fakir come
To stay, from Uttar Pradesh,
I was doing a friend a favour,
I don’t, as a rule, have guests,
I couldn’t make out a single word
He said, and so my friend
Provided a written commentary
To guide me, in the end.
It seems he was naming my furniture
It’s something that they do,
In places that are incongruous
Like the depths of Kalamazoo,
And he wanted to give them English names
So he asked my friend’s advice,
In case I couldn’t pronounce them,
Well, at least the thought was nice.
My armchair became Albert
And my settee Gunga Din,
I suppose he thought it would be okay
As it was from Kipling.
The tallboy was called Gerald
And the wardrobe, simply Joe,
The polished table Cheryl
And the kitchen one was Flo.
I’m glad that he wrote them down because
I can’t remember names,
Just that the bed was Susan
And the kitchen sink was James,
Some of them were portentous like
Ignatius, for the desk,
While each of the kitchen chairs was given
A name that ends with -este.
Celeste, Impreste, Doneste and Geste
And then of course, Ingeste,
I couldn’t remember which was which,
My friend was not impressed.
We bade farewell to the Fakir
And the Wardrobe flapped its doors,
And rumbled out a ‘Goodbye my friend’
From between its mighty jaws.
Then voices rose in a chorus from
Each part of my tidy home,
The names had given them each a voice,
It was rowdier than Rome,
The voices were accusatory
Trying to lay some guilt,
And Susan said of the Wardrobe, Joe,
‘He’s looking up my quilt!’
‘How could I help it,’ Joe replied,
‘I’m at the foot of the bed,
You’re flashing me with your silken sheets,
It’s doing in my head!’
While Albert grumbled in voice so deep,
‘Do I have to be a chair?
Each time you plonk on my tender seat
I’m gasping out for air!’
Then the kitchen chairs were out of place
And James was choked with suds,
The carpet, name of Emily
Was sick of traipsing mud.
It seemed that the polished table top
Was scratched, and she was mad,
The desk disliked my keyboard so
To each, I answered ‘Sad!’
‘You’re going to have to get along
I won’t put up with this,
Until that Fakir came along
This house was perfect bliss.’
I did away with their English names,
Replaced them with Chinese,
But they couldn’t speak a word of it
So I brought them to their knees!
And peace returned to Grissom Place
Just as I thought it would,
I made it plain to Wardrobe Joe
‘You’re just a lump of wood.’
While Susan smooths her quilt right down
And tucks her sheets right in,
And James just blubs, he’s full of suds
As I nap on Gunga Din!
David Lewis Paget
Jan 17, 2015
Jan 17, 2015 at 7:40 PM UTC
Dripping water from faucet of heaven
pierced down the sky of my realm.
Last dream.
The sound went tip tip for two seconds and rimose creeped on my poise.
A fakir without head told me on my abrupt attention
"Find the sun,my son."
Old ragged converse from the stinky corners slipped out and hesitantly told
"You can't walk with me. You selfish rant"
The path was smooth to bore the hell out of me
From dawn to dusk I was among the rainfall of misty fumes
Slowly I vapoured too.I was informed
By voice unsung
"The sun shines only behind the clouds"
The dripping memories from faucet of heaven creaked inside me
I sublimed in absence of myself and words came out "what for?"
The yellow ball of hot moraine bulbed out. The sun- it said, "What for"
The fakir without head spoke " the night is done"
Jan 15, 2014
Jan 15, 2014 at 9:34 PM UTC
the less money I make,
the more I give away...
need to get cured,
need me some cure,
to keep my money in
my Persian silk sow purse,
so when enfeebled,
can pay a nurse to
wipe my drooling chin
need me some
curmudgeon herbs
to get rid of this
happy insanity
cure this ****** mudge,
from giving away his green fudge,
so when doing his
sleepy-eyed sums,
the tallying up,
the counting down
did he qualify,
as a good ole one,
his conscience
busy unconsciously,
anudging, adjudging,
to see if the boyo can
sleep better this night.
So when he meets
the maker,
He won't say
hey faker,
but fakir,
magic maker,
dervish swayer
and
*"you my kind of poet,
let's make us some
smiling mischievous trouble,
give away whatever it takes,
love potions number nine,
winning lottery tickets
for everyone,
you and me,
scheming schematic
crazy man poet and god,
to make it happy-en."*
Oct 10, 2014
Oct 10, 2014 at 3:30 PM UTC
For a year or possibly more,
Decompression begins:
Purging electricity, electronics.
Fall away, Internet, Oh!
No more cellular,
**** the television set,
Except, perhaps, a radio,
Lest I totally forget....
Hello, paper,
Hello, books,
Come off the shelves;
Lose those ***** looks,
Warm again before my eyes,
Feel the press of my writing stick.
Thoreau, the fakir,
Left the social order
Just a year,
Though just how far
He really went
Remains foggily unclear,
And the fact that he returned
Suggests that Nature
Left him feeling burned.
So, like a diver,
Rising from the deep,
I'd take a while to meditate,
To let the busyness-es go
And put electric dreams to sleep.
Aug 5, 2019
Aug 5, 2019 at 1:26 PM UTC
your words
a wondrous pipe
a windy weapon
of pure persuasion
how they manage
to uncoil me
thoughtlessly
tantalized in your tune
moony-eyed fakir
you flout me
with your fairy flute
You think
I am only just
mesmerised
but when
I ****** my gaze
forward at you
I mean to ensnare
your soul
the way your silver tongue
has poisoned
mine.
Apr 6, 2015
Apr 6, 2015 at 3:48 AM UTC
Backtracking towards the Light
oh! Fakir,
brilliant shiny Bright
Neophyte hypnosis, take me In..
oh! Beloved,
fragile tendrils of my desire
heartfully hear me, hear Me..
my heartfelt Prayers,
I do not fear to tread into the highest vapours.
Clandestine Clementine!
not One Breath but Three
times itself, squared.
Blaspheme!
not forsaken, dripping drapes
blindsided, blindly onwards...
not forsaken Sight!
Hear me, Hear Me..
Bless'ed be my Name!
Nov 5, 2014
Nov 5, 2014 at 10:43 AM UTC
You are the Nightingale of Mayanmar
A cruel magic fakir has caged you for fifteen years
Your pathetic plights brings incessant tears
Into my sore eyes
Who can choke your sonorous song
Which devil can hold you for long
“heard melodies may be sweet
But unheard melodies are sweeter
Your soothing song has echoed into our ears
We have heard it for many silent periods
You have allayed our fears
We will kiss your beautiful feathers
You are an angelic bird
And have won the heart of the world
You can fly very high
And soar into the free sky
You are freed from the iron fenced cage
Nobody can stop the people’s volcanic rage
You are the eternal democratic spirit
You will surely be crowned for your unfailing merit
Dec 25, 2010
Dec 25, 2010 at 4:41 AM UTC
His Soul, sinless, impeccant,
hidden inside the body like a pod.
caught in the storm of emotions,
danced out of love for his God.
His body under spell of his soul,
came under soul's servitude.
body became soul's reflection and
danced for lord out of gratitude.
stones, razzes, taunts and abuses were hurled
but he danced, danced and danced ignoring this cruel world.
Nov 3, 2014
Nov 3, 2014 at 9:19 PM UTC
When at night I slightly touch you
grumbling you turn away,
I get closer to you in the morning
and yawning you turn over,
I look for a contact
to say hallo
and like a bear
without realizing you ignore me,
I get breakfast ready
and everything seems due.
I hint a smile
but even a glance
seems an effort
then we go to work
and if I call you
you sound surprised,
if I miss you
you don't notice it,
if I am sad
you don't perceive it,
tired
you don't care.
When it's convenient for you
I am here,
when I need affection
I don't exist,
when I need a caress
you don't know what to do,
a word
you don't waste your energy.
You look like a fakir
on a bed of thorns
and if I have made a mistake
it's because in youth
passion blinds
and it's worth more
than a sunset on the sea.
26.11.'13
Oct 30, 2014
Oct 30, 2014 at 2:25 PM UTC
The fakir disappears
and the crowd cheers,
illusion or not
that fakir's got them hooked
and I'm ****** if I know how
he did it.
Jun 6, 2017
Jun 6, 2017 at 5:01 PM UTC
De las eternas musas el reino soberano
recorres bajo un soplo de eterna inspiración,
como un rajah soberbio que en su elefante indiano
por sus dominios pasa de rudo viento al son.Tú tienes en tu canto como ecos de Oceano;
se ve en tu poesía la selva y el ***
salvaje luz irradia la lira que en tu mano
derrama su sonora, robusta vibración.Tú del fakir conoces secretos y avatares;
a tu alma dio el Oriente misterios seculares,
visiones legendarias y espíritu oriental.Tu verso está nutrido con savia de la tierra;
fulgor de Ramayanas tu viva estrofa encierra,
y cantas en la lengua del bosque colosal.
493
Oh Sleep,
you old weaver of unbeatable threads,
- - feeder of narcotic nectar - - - - - - baker
of heavy-grain sedative - - boatman who never
stops splashing oars - - - slumber-jack - - fakir
with magical wand - - you wide-eye lover bent
on seduction - - a fiend who woos then takes,
the so-called sooth-crooner - - - hill-a-bye friend
known as the sandman - - - an eye-salve agent,
maker of drowse-powder - - dope-peddler,
dream-chainer - you the drug-spirit - pale
ghost of opiate-relaxation - - - - soft-breathed
jailer of wakeful night-ire - - - - the knave
who keeps dozers awake - - - Sleep the jester
whose counted sheep drives brave people crazy.
Jan 18, 2017
Jan 18, 2017 at 11:11 AM UTC
He faked a letter to god
and slept whole night.
(Fallen in a creek from a moving train.)
Indeed, he saddled himself with luxury
of oblivion.
The success around him was most obstinate.
Pretending to condone the arthritis
of social limbs, he walked straight
to become what he would be,
a fakir among riches without fanfare. The
absolute renunciation, slapping the door –
shut, for blackness.
It was visible, the nakedness of brazen lies
falling like cottonwool around him. He touched
coral eyes of truth and wept, never to speak
again. Cosmos would split
for his journey to home.
This was meant for you, he said to himself.
Your own choosing without any regrets.
His fingers traced the figure of a mother
of the thin moon, who was assaulting
the crib of sun.
Feb 28, 2017
Feb 28, 2017 at 9:45 PM UTC
Stone heart, in my sleep
you come to study the falling power
of love to clear the black board.
Where do I go to
find peace? People are swallowing
the burning coals. Very sweet.
My poems sweep. One by
one I am dropping my possessions
to become a fakir, going near god.
Oct 28, 2023
Oct 28, 2023 at 9:28 PM UTC
O Ghamgusaar!
He.. O...Mere. O.. Yaara..
Iss Dosti ke naseeb
ko bachcale!
Tumne is bejaan ruh ko
khwaish ban ke kya dawa pilai.
ki.
Aaj hawa apna rut mod chali,
aur hume rulake chali gayi!
Khuda fakir banke na aaya!
Aur hum betaab reha gaye,
Is Sehar mein din ke ujaale tak!
Lekin.
O Ghamgusaar!
Aaj ye aankhon ke ansu
kehena hai, chahate tumse
ki in dhadkano ne seekha hai jeena tumse!
Isliye.
He..O...Mere. O.. Dil-Yaara!
Iss Dosti ke naseeb ko bachcale!
©shivpoetesspriya
Jan 9, 2024
Jan 9, 2024 at 7:27 AM UTC