The Icicled Bosom


Old lesions fester and seep in the cavern of tonight,
Dark thoughts gather and weep in the cavern of tonight.

A high wind is swaying the maimed tree of deodar,
The parched lips of tippler look for tavern of tonight.

Upturned chairs wait not for visitors in the café,
The feast is laid in boudoir for the intern of tonight.

She was a baby-faced killer who poisoned my chalice,
Her sherry lips are printed on the lantern of tonight.

Uma you who wriggle like a trampled caterpillar,
Your bosom is an icicle in the winter of tonight.


  1. The ominous utterings of an ill wind Uma?
    Sure, there may be shadows that lurk, turning tides & a dash of nostalgic wanderings to battle… but no winter is forever.

  2. A devastating ghazal, Uma. I shrink into awe… it show there’s a great beauty in desolation. You rival Hopkins in his later sonnets – “I wake and feel the fell of dark not day…”

    1. I am grateful for the continued encouragement, Bruce. You have invoked Hopkins’ name and I am thrilled to bask in the glory of his words. But he is the sea where I want to be a seashell.

  3. Our sweetest songs are those that tell us of our sadest thoughts. True art and creativity have that power of transcendence. While baby faced killers prowl around, let your pen continue producing beauty.

  4. Oh my goodness, this made me shudder, Uma. Coming to it as I have, in the middle of an ordinary day, it’s not a pause in the flow – it’s a hard and harsh full stop.

    There is menacing power here, yet where and why I can’t discern. And that’s right; it’s as it should be.

    Thank you for this compelling intermission.

  5. A wonderful demonstration, Uma, of the power of poetry to make beauty out of the bleakest moments. Bravo! You are a ghazal master…

  6. Menacing and uncomfortable; an eerie feeling of being invaded, violated. And yet such richness, beauty in these images. The power of lyricism, dancing snake-like – gyrating charmingly – creating sparks in the darkness.

  7. I haven’t read a written word for a while, but I know where to find what I want to hear 🙂 Your Ghazals have a double effect on me: they are in tune with the sadness I feel, but their perfection melts the icicles and heals the wounds.

  8. Perhaps there is no connection but your lines “A high wind is swaying the maimed tree of deodar,
    The parched lips of tippler look for tavern of tonight” reminded me of the Eagles’ “The full moon is calling, the fever is high
    And the wicked wind whispers and moans”.

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