JAGARI MUKHERJEE - POEMS

Jagari Mukherjee is an award-winning bilingual poet, writer and critic from Kolkata, India. She is a gold medallist in English Literature from University of Pune. Her writings have appeared or are forthcoming in several international newspapers, journals, and anthologies, including Plum Tree Tavern, Labyrinthine Passages, Duane’s PoeTree, Vox Poetica, Margutte, Tuck Magazine, and others. Her first book, a collection of poems entitled Blue Rose, was published in May 2017 by Bhashalipi. Jagari works as a freelance content writer.

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​THE SNAIL

​In the picturesque woods,
Green trees sway in the wind;
Oranges, like sun-globules, are swinging…
I am impatient
And watch a snail moving through the orange groves…
 
A sky-blue butterfly stops its air-dance, and
Perches on my knee.
I make the butterfly my companion
And stroll along the river.
 
Suddenly, from under my feet
The soil cleared, and I saw
An old marble grave
With the inscription –
“He loved the woods and the river.”
 
The blue butterfly and I
Return to the garden
Amongst red and purple flowers.
I patiently start searching
For the snail.
 

CHILDLESS MOTHERHOOD
​

​A childless woman
Is not a barren land;
Her heart of a tender mother
Beats in sync  with
Her womb full of
The red pulp of hopes and desires –
Probe and feel
The wet grief of her
Childless motherhood
Where all her love
Is contained within
The floodgates of a perfectly made-up smile.
 
You do not see
The golden fertility
Of her ripe soul
When she makes love to you
With the softness of a brooding dove.
 
She touches her body
To yours
Wanting to feel a baby’s mouth on her breast
And grieving
The spilling of pomegranates every month…

TORN
​

​You sought to expose and tear me
Brutally – petal by petal –
Thus leaving the petals
Scattered on the ground;
The reluctant nectar you drew,
And the pollen you damaged.
 
You thought this woman
Was for plucking –
Pushing her into poses driven by your lust
And snatching her own self from her soul –
 
You  cared not for the grief
That clung to her like a heavy child;
You crushed her with shame for your pleasure,
And it mattered not that there was
A torn flower beneath you.