PARAMITA MUKHERJEE MULLICK

 

PARAMITA MUKHERJEE MULLICK

 

The Ink Smudge

 

The ink of my fountain pen smudged on my fingers.

The ink dropped on my notebook of poems.

In the flight, I could not write.

I wiped the ink off my fingers.

There were ink devils on my notebook.

The ever optimist that I am,

Started observing the ink devils.

They formed such wonderful shapes on my notebook.

The scientist in me started analysing the cause of the ink leak.

Low pressure in the plane has caused the ink to overflow from a crack.

The ink butterfly and the ink blobs.

The different shapes and sizes, the different drops.

The blue ink splattered around.

In these ink smudges, poetry I found.

 

The Moving Lights

 

I dozed off in the long flight.

I opened my eyes and saw wondrous light.

The sunlight shining on the opposite wall.

Sometimes the sunbeams shortened and sometimes tall.

The window shaped sunbeams moving around.

The moving lights giving a joy newly found.

The feeling of no-movement in the plane.

The joy of the moving lights cannot in words be explained.

The moving sunbeams shining around.

Dancing around orchestrated with the engine sound.

The moving light seen in the plane cabin.

The dance of the sunbeams and happiness wins.

 

A Dialogue Between Pain And Conscience

 

Pain said, “I am very important for an individual”.

Conscience laughed and said, “How so?

Everyone is scared of pain and tries to avoid pain”.

Ouch said Pain. “With pain a human gets to know there is damage to an organ or a limb.

Only pain suggests that an injured part is not healed yet.

A man with a broken leg without pain would run around and the leg would never heal”.

 

Conscience said, “I am very important for a society”.

“What? But conscience is a personal virtue”, cried Pain.

“Society is made up of individuals.

What would happen if these individuals had no conscience?

Corruption would spread and destroy all”, stammered Conscience.

“So, Society without a conscience, is not a society at all”.

 

The Jet Liner

 

The jet liner speeded across the sky.

The lines of smoke behind it.

Two white lines following it.

I looked up and at the beauty sighed.

 

The curly white smoke in two lines.

Vanishing into nothing at the end.

The jet liner piercing the sky with great speed.

The tiny white jet liner with the smoke signs.

 

The sky, blemish less, cloudless, pristine blue.

Sunlight washed and sparkling around.

The jet liner goes straight ahead.

Reminding us to look forward both me and you.

 

The Antique Almirah

 

The ancient Burma teak almirah.

With a designer mirror in front.

Intricate wooden carvings below and above.

A thread of flowers on both sides.

Ribbons in bows in two corners.

Flowers hanging like bells in a row.

The almirah has been used by so many generations.

So many people have seen their reflection in the mirror.

So many thoughts, so many feelings

Have been treasured by the mirror.

 

The huge old antique almirah.

A different kind of floral design below the mirror.

The almirah resting on four lion feet.

Curved, delicate and refined work.

Painstakingly made by skilled carpenters.

The mirror shining brightly even after all these years.

The hinges of the almirah door intact.

The locking system working as good as new.

Standing tall and shiny in the huge room.

Witness to so many new lives bloom.

PARAMITA MUKHERJEE MULLICK

 

Dr. PARAMITA MUKHERJEE MULLICK is a scientist, a national scholar transformed into an internationally acclaimed, award-winning poet. She has eight books to her credit. Her poems have been widely published in Indian and foreign journals. Some of her poems have been translated into 39 languages.  Paramita has started and is the President of the Mumbai Chapter of the Intercultural Poetry and Performance Library (IPPL). She is also the Cultural Convenor and Literary Coordinator (West India) of the International Society for Intercultural Studies and Research (ISISAR). Paramita promotes fusion of poetry with other performing arts, indigenous poetry, multilingual and global poetry.