Kaberi Mukherjee: A Voice of Grace, Grit, and Poetry

Kaberi Mukherjee: A Voice of Grace, Grit, and Poetry

Poetry is the satisfaction of the soul. It offers refuge from the noise of everyday life, drawing us into moments of quiet intimacy where truth often whispers louder than words. A true poet does not see the world through the lens of nationality, language, or faith, but through emotion, memory and wonder, and Kaberi Mukherjee exemplifies this rare and luminous perspective.

For Kaberi, poetry is not merely a craft; it is a way of being. Her work preserves love, loss, nature, memory, and introspection in the delicate permanence of ink. She believes a poet must be generous, idealistic, and attuned to the subtle simplicity of life, seeking meaning in the overlooked and beauty in the ordinary.

Her debut solo poetry collection, Blooming in Fall (Shikor Publishers, 2023), offered readers a tender yet powerful glimpse into her inner world, marked by emotional clarity and lyrical strength. Her upcoming collection, Ashes and Ink (Shikor Publishers, 2025), delves even deeper, with poems such as Black Lady, Third Almirah, and Nothingness exploring themes of identity, abandonment, memory, and silent resilience. Kaberi’s poetic voice is grounded in realism and introspection, but always with a quiet grace, a soft yet unyielding resistance to the world’s harshness.

Her language is tactile and intimate, pulling readers close to the breath of a moment or the hush of a fading memory. Whether writing about autumn or ache, Kaberi’s poetry remains deeply human, stirring, and profoundly reflective. She does not merely write poems; she lives them inviting her readers to live within them too.

Beyond her work as a poet, Kaberi Mukherjee is also a short story writer and aspiring novelist. She serves as Assistant Editor for both Global Poet and Poetry and Shikor, and is a dedicated admin and core member of both literary platforms. Her poems have appeared in numerous international anthologies, and she has earned accolades and recognition from around the world for her poetic contributions.

A Birthday Celebration of Words and Wonder

On the occasion of Kaberi Mukherjee’s birthday, the entire Shikor and Global families come together to celebrate not only her life, but the immense talent, dedication, and heart she brings to both communities. Her unwavering commitment as an editor, administrator, and creative force has been central to the growth and spirit of both platforms.

In honour of this special day, a selection of her poems is being featured as a tribute to her poetic voice and her enduring impact on contemporary literature.

Here’s wishing Kaberi a joyful and inspiring birthday, filled with love, creativity, and continued literary milestones. May her words keep blooming, in fall and always.

Hail to the poet and the poetry.

Happy Birthday, Kaberi Mukherjee!

On this special day, the entire Global and Shikor family joins together in wishing you a joyful and inspiring birthday! Today, we celebrate not just for her, but also your beautiful gift to the world, your poetry. To honour her day, we’re featuring a special collection of her poems, a reflection of depth, grace, and creative spirit.

Here’s to many more years of words that touch hearts.

Black Lady

From the womb of the darkness,
Emerges she, the black lady, A bodily manifestation,
Of thousand caliginous nights, She’s an opaque shadow.
By the fierceness of fire,
She’s tempered, flame hardened.

Roams she in the graves
In the leafless wintry nights.
Shies away the sly foxes,
As her eyes pierce through their black skin;
Afore the blackness of her patina
The whiteness of the snow is a zilch.

She is black, Black from top to toe
Black from back to front.
She is black.

Yet not black to be the evil
Not black as the death
Not black as the black hole.
She is black as the fertile earth
Where seeds of hope flourish
As life blossoms in quiet rebirth.
She is black as black onyx,
Destroying all that is negative.

She is black, for she absorbed
All that is coloured, Coloured faces and coloured deeds.
And she is black with all the blues.
And she is black with all the hues.

Filigree of Autumn

Filigree of autumnal shades seize me,
Colours of fall,
Colours of life.

Traversing across the withered leaves,
The train whistles the song of Robin.
My destination, perhaps known,
Yet unknown.
The creator busy scribbling my fate,
Scribbles, scratches, speculates,
And the last verdict given perhaps,
Or maybe another upheaval.
Stretching my hands
Awaits my heart To embrace the sack of surprises
He decides for me, for us.
Behold! O’Lord!
I’m alive.

Thoughts derail
As the other train breaks the stillness.
Senses, some are numbed
Let it remain as it is.
Life wondrous, never fails to amuse,
The doors, I left ajar, Let it come, let it pass,
Behold O’ Lord!
I’m alive.

I summon the shades, And surrender to their magnificence,
As they grapple me once more.
The tiled roofs, the Victorian houses,
Call upon me,
Perhaps acknowledge they, My existence.
No more I feel their belligerence.
The distant hills whisper in my ears Rest a while,
O’ Traveller.
Oh! How long do I,
To repose a while, Yet, how do I?
A long way to go, Some oaths taken,
Some pledges to be settled.

Behold! O’ Lord
I am alive.

Remains the Mere Path

At the end
It’s the mere path that remains,
And you must walk.

If the road was rocky,
Or bed of roses,
If the clouds dissipated
Or the sun was scorching,
Nothing counts,
Neither the destination
Nor the zeal to reach,
Remains the mere emptiness
But you must walk.

The lub dub’s replaced eons back,
Remains a heavy thump,
And an untold silence, Remembrances rusted
And it’s the mere path that remains
And you must walk.

Moments of agony
Blended with those of treasure,
Perhaps the fluorescent shade
Brewed with gray.

Sans sadness, sans elation
Sans mists, sans brilliance
Perhaps the shape’s changed,
Remains a mere mass
That beats within the flesh.
And it’s the path that remains,
And you must walk.

Fallen leaf

Does every saga spin a joyous tale?
Does every passerine sing a jolly song?
Does every droplet create a rainbow?
Does every shower concoct the essence of petrichor?
The river brimming and gushing merrily
Conceals the bruises beneath
And the leaf that floats happily with the stream
Severing all ties with the woods Conceals its disdain!
Yet, let some verses be crystalline, pellucid
Flowing with those lumps Stuck in throat in days of yore
Or battered the heart hitherto.
Let some couplets weave the tale
When days were of myriad shades
And nights weren’t pale.
Let some humans know
Life is a seesaw of happiness and woe.
A cycle of dusk and luminosity
Where dreams yarn fables of congeniality.

Hyde

It was all good then,
My quaint abode, Talbot Road.
Rows of Victorian houses, Strings of Sycamore.
Hopes like silver lining Fluttered its fresh pair of wings
On my grey canvas.

The sun went down the road
And the clouds gathered up the hill.
A hush fell over as the moon peeped in.

It was all good then,
Life learning new alphabets, Connections afar.
No shoulder to cry, None to rejoice.
Jubilance and anguish were a straight line.

It was all good then,
John and his terrier, next door,
My sole corporeal acquaintances.
How I wished the terrier could speak a few of my native words.

It was all good then, Evenings were lonely walk Up the hill.
The corner church
It’s grey stones
Eons frozen in those walls.
And the church bell
Overlooking the Sheffield hills.
Unspoilt beauty,
Untouched by time.
It was all good then!

Tale of a Bride

The overlapping drapes And the swaying blinds
Tell tales of faith and hope
Yarns of her love
She held in her heart
Pledges she swore
And the dreams she wove
While entering the household.
A bride with sparkling eyes,
Blushing countenance
A demeanor amiable and meek
A life to nourish and flourish.

Alas! Inanimate were they
Forbidden to drop tears
Yet bore witness of credence
Dabbed on those walls
And those sheets,
Witnessed broken hopes
As shards of glass
They pierced her heart
Where love hid in a secret nook
Afraid of being persecuted Over again.
Wished the curtains, blinds too
Perhaps resolved
Never to born as humans.

Golden Moments

When the days’re gray,
Silhouettes of sadness cloaks my way
The closet of golden moments I unlatch
And bring them out one after another.

Some are glowing butterflies
With vibrant hues
They encircle me
Giving vivacity to my troubled heart.

Some are freshly blossomed flowers
With ecstatic essence
They enchant me
Giving anew hopes to my perturbed mind.

Some are virgin sunshine
With anew vigour
They energize me
Giving sanguinity to my life.

Some are cascading moonbeams
With tranquil placidity
They assuage me
Giving solace to my aggrieved soul.

Love Without Borders

Someday, the seed of love
Shall grow into a giant sequoia
The huge shade shall encompass the world
With amity, benevolence, and love.
Countries shall be free of frontiers
And hearts of men shall be free of bigotry.
When wealth shan’t be the basis of discrimination
People won’t be judged by caste, creed, and religion.
Enmity, vendetta and malignity shall breathe their last.
Our soldiers won’t lose their lives in combat Humanity
shall be the goal of human beings.
Borderless love shall be cherished by earthlings.

Your Lady Love

I met your lady the night before, Beautiful, sublime, unspoilt.
Her sparkling smile
Like a freshly blossomed Egyptian Lily,
Cheering it’s own bloom.
As if touched by a vigour of thousand lives,
Her spright reflects eternal ecstasy
As if pallor is eons away. Her eyes fathomless as ocean,
A realm of blissful love.

She waltzed around me with celestial charisma,
As if an alluring enchantress
Oh! How envious was I! Never seen a joyous soul as hers,
Yet I couldn’t feign happiness.

She told me the stories
That you yarn around her.
And the poetry that you weave
When she sleeps beside you each night.
Her saree giving way to your seductive gaze,
Her body wet, As the raindrops dripping Down her braids.
I witnessed you painting love on her frame
I saw you enamoured in embrace.
You’re so happy, you’re so well.
 

The Market on My Way

The market on my way,
The market beside the bay,

On my right runs,
The aromas of freshly brewed coffee and cakes
And on my left,
The plompy turkish seller boasts his fresh catches.
And there stands the Bengali vendor
Promising fresh greens in all its splendour
And the Portuguese with his Snacks and sweet savouries.
Every day the market weaves
Anew story.

Each soul that goes by
The market stretches its arms
To each passerby.
Echoes of vivid voices,
Reverberating myriad phonics and dialects.
A cacophony to the ears,
Still entwining with warmth.

The air infused with smell of kebabs and roll
But high in demand
Are the Gamja Corn dog at the Korean stall.
The scarfs, the stoles, the sweaters and jerkins
The salesman’s delighted to be surrounded by maidens.
The smile of that Jamaican lady revives my chilly mornings
Busy with her cappuccino and toastie servings.

The market offers a spectrum of variety,
Whitechapel weaves a cultural tapestry.

Abhaya Or Abhaga (Fearless or Unfortunate)

What do i call you girl?
Abhaya or Abhaga?
What do i call?
A phenomenal lady you were, An erudite woman.
Uma of our motherland!

Alas! We lost you to a bunch of scavengers.
Vultures who butchered your body, Torn you apart.
Though couldn’t touch your soul.
And we the living devils,
Our soul is petrified by the horror,
Yet we’re mum, busy in our daily humdrum.

We’re morphed,
Transformed into a pack of Zombies
Running behind the chimera called happiness.
Our eyes are coloured, our souls are sold
To some unknown pleasure.
And we are mum.

What do I call you O’Goddess, Abhaya or Abhaga?
For your justice is sold,
Sold on those streets,
That once bawled for penance.
Sold in that academia,
That witnessed your impenitent execution.
Sold by your compeers,
Who vowed to be indomitable once.
And sold perhaps by that battered household,
Suppressed by the despot, the thugs.

What do I call you girl, Abaya or Abhaga?
For the vultures’re flying free again,
For absence of witness,
Perhaps hunting for another living flesh.

Repents the creator this day,
Howls the entire universe,
The finest of His creations
With highest intelligence.
Perhaps that became the hamartia
For their downfall.

.

Copyright@Kaberi Mukherjee

Faruk Ahmed Roni
Editor

×

Download