Procyon Mukherjee was born in Calcutta and lived through many cities of India. The woes of living through the seventies and eighties, the rising expectations of the youth and the lost opportunities weighed on his poems; the new found economic regeneration that India went through in the whole of nineties that culminated in the rejuvenation of the Indian professional also found new expression in his works.
Procyon is a passionate and intensely soulful individual, his poetry rises from the small moments that he encounters every day to the bigger questions that leave us wonder, as there are more questions always than answers. Every poem is his life’s journey, about people and tidbits that makes him interpret them sometimes objectively and sometimes with a complete lack of it.
Procyon lived in Switzerland for almost four years, many of his poems cover the ethos of these times. He now lives in Mumbai and the sea, including the humanity around is vibrant in his words.
There are no windows in my room
The Steel touches me every time I move
And the air smells of unknowns
That I have got used to
...
Did I ask why
Saddled within, somewhat wasted
Like a footprint absorbed
...
I was filling from coffers to pallets
Spilling them
Like a slur in a legato
That had no rite of passage
...
It pitched and rolled,
The summers of warm water
Deep salty wind, from sandy lands
Teaching a restraint too many
...