Jessica Mookherjee

Jess Mookherjee poet

Jessica Mookherjee is the newest member of Telltale Press. In the last two years her poetry has appeared in a range of publications including Agenda, Antiphon, Ink, Sweat and Tears, The Interpreter’s House, Under the Radar, Obsessed With Pipework, Tears In the Fence and Brittle Star. In 2016 she was shortlisted for the Fairacre first pamphlet award and was the winner of the 2016 Paragram Prize.

Jess has a Bengali heritage, was brought up in South Wales and was educated and worked most of her adult life in London. She is now based in Kent – where she works in Public Health Education.

Jess is passionate about spreading the love of poetry into local communities and is part of a number of local writers’ groups. She is an active member of the Kent and Sussex Poetry Stanza and has run local workshops for local arts festivals. She is part of Fractal, an artists’ collective of Poets, Photographers and Artists in Tunbridge Wells. Her first full collection will be available in 2018.



Reviews of The Swell (Telltale Press 2016)

Review by Karen Dennison in Abegail Morley’s Poetry Shed

For a Review by Ian Brinton for the Tears in the Fence Blog

Review by Emma Lee from Emma Lee’s Blog

Five Stars Review on Goodreads from Elly Nobbs


Selected publications

The Swell (Telltale Press 2016)


‘Darshan’ published in The North issue 57 (January 2017)

‘Seder’ published in The Interpreter’s House issue 62 (February 2016)

‘The Lascaux Caves’ published in Agenda vol 49 (March 2016)

‘Nineteen Sixty Seven’ published in Antiphon issue 16 (September 2015)

‘Amrita’ published in The High Window issue 3 (Autumn 2016)

‘Milk’ published in Tears in the Fence Issue 64 (September 2016)


‘Beast’, winner of Paragram Poetry Prize 2016  judged by Claire Dyer


Review of Glass by Elizabeth Sennit Clough in Ink, Sweat & Tears

Review of Alice: Ekphrasis in The High Window.

Where to find Jess


LinkedIn  |  Twitter  |  Facebook

The Swell

Drum tight, she looked about to burst.
He made a fuss of her for a change,
waded in wearing galoshes
as her waters broke, flooding
the house. We were left to stay with strangers,
up to our necks in silt. He tapped his hard hat,
made milk-dribble jokes for cameras,
said storms with girls names were the deadliest.
Then she emerged, fresh with her slake
of new flesh as the whole town lugged sandbags,
trying to stop her.