Poetry: Rupsa Mukherjee

Rupsa Mukherjee
Quarantine Morbidity

Lovelorn maid, maligned, 
Seeks lasting peace of mind;
Bleeding potion in breeches
Brewed by Macbeth’s witches,
Flair, flamboyant craze,
Set her world ablaze.
Sassy sans reason or rhyme
Wallows she in morbid slime.
Baffled brain being astir,
Restores her back from afar;
By the fiat of imagination,
In realm of sterile stagnation,
She braves the virus and scorn
And, a wee mite poesy is born.

Corona Crisis

Her Ram, a weeding worker
Now an unwaged Santhali, 
His hapless rural Sita,
Walks the campaign rally.
A fib, a trip, a slip,
A poke, a grope for grist,
Thousands watts dazzle
Blurs into cock-hen tryst.
Her plastic raft afloat,
On taint’d torrent of time,
White healers gather round
The receding shores sublime.
A pure soul wafts gently,
Above fret, fever and grime.

Light of life

The sun vies for a place
With sickle quarantin’d moon;
The night is on the wane,
There will be light soon.
Still the lone raven calls
For the drop on lotus leaf,
Under the pale linen shroud
Gaspin’ breath finds relief.
Amidst jasmine and catkins
Sunshine girl sports along-
Leaf strewn, fruiting earth
Sings the Agomoni song.
Puja bells echoing extol
Crisp morning air of Fall.


  1. Beautiful Rupsa! Didn't know you write so well

  2. Beautiful Rupsa! Didn't know you write so well


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