Wet Charcoal

Each night I bleed a little of my soul to her beauty,
Silken words congeal into a mole to her beauty.

A lone moon treads the vesper dust of day’s end,
The dying sun has left a veil of kohl to her beauty.

Is that a beeline of suitors to the nectar of her blossoms?
Clueless of the key or the keyhole to her beauty.

I have languished in the prisons for days and nights a million,
The holy books will offer no parole to her beauty.

Uma, you who scribble such scandalous ghazals in English,
Your pencil is but leaking wet charcoal to her beauty.

33 comments

  1. Let such scandalous gazhals flow from the charcoal dripped pencil of Uma more often. It is always a pleasure to read such compositions.

  2. A passionate, sensual expression of love and desire. Beautifully written poem, Umashankar, silken words indeed!

  3. Brilliant to the core. Your blog post is. And that’s a merit. No doubt. Whether a vice or a virtue might be a point to think.

  4. I will read your posts every morning with my coffee until I am caught up on all you have accomplished. Your work pulls the reader inside and makes the reading as real as if they were there. I believe my blood heated up while reading Wet Charcoal. The imagery is fantastic. I have never forgotten reading your story, Uma, about the monkeys. I swear, I can still hear them scream, see their fangs, and feel the fear. ~Ginene

  5. Uma you who scribble such wonder ghazals in English,
    Are a master and your pencil no charcoal but tool of a goldsmith that engraves in gold.

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