Wet Charcoal


Each night I bleed a part of my soul to her beauty,
Silken words awaken to fill up the hole to her beauty.

A lone moon is treading forth the liminal dust of evening,
The dying sun has hitched a veil of kohl to her beauty.

Is that a beeline of suitors to the bounty of her blossoms?
Garrisons failed to conquer the poles to her beauty.

I have wandered 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 dripping wet charcoal to her beauty.

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I am just a watcher then. Sometimes I watch life, sometimes I watch death; many times I watch in between...

33 thoughts on “Wet Charcoal

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

  2. 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.

  3. 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

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