Mohana is a mender of words. Quilting the most delicate form of words, her stunning imagery is alluring and unrelenting. Her poetic pieces are dreamlike and sincere. Touching on the simpler matters of life, yet her words are quite philosophical. She is a deep thinker with an empowerment for the sweet serenity of beauty.
Her elements of writing are haunting and profound, transcending us into different portals of flowing words and obscure euphoria. Mohana’s poetry certainly surpasses her young age. Her flow is eloquently expressive in every sense, capturing innocence in that butterfly net.
Her language runs clear, there is no explanation needed for the profoundness of her words. Her work is simply divine.
Acoustic Ink is honored to feature this remarkable artist.
Mohana’s interview with our team:
Name: Mohana Das
Location: Kolkata, India
Q: How many hours a day do you write?
I do not have it defined. It is usually about an hour a day.
Q: Do you have any writing superstitions, or quirks?
No, nothing as such.
Q: How do you deal with personal doubters?
Constructive criticism is always welcome. They help better my work. I am a learner, and I try to learn from what my critics have to say.
Q: When you were growing up, what made you want to become a writer?
I have always been passionate about Literature. In high school, I started writing newspaper reports on school events, articles for the wall magazine, skits, and poetry for functions. My English teachers were very encouraging. In short, I would say it’s the appreciation of my friends and teachers that made me want to become a writer.
Q: At what point did you decide to take writing seriously?
After joining Facebook, I began posting my writings there, and the reviews were good. People were appreciating my work. That is what made me decide to take writing seriously. When I can do something well, why not try and make it better!
Q: Describe a perfect setting where you can get writing done?
Well…it depends. I usually write late at night, sometimes during class, or in the train on the way to college.
Q: Where do you look for inspiration?
All around! My favorite writers inspire me. Then there are always movies, music, and photographs, flowers and butterflies, friends, love and memories. There is so much of throbbing life to write about.
Q: What kind of books did you read growing up, if any?
I am usually into classics, preferably romances and autobiographical writings.
Q: Are you a traditional type of writer (paper and pencil) or do you use your computer to write?
I am a traditional writer, though sometimes I type in my Nokia and save it as a note.
Q: What’s your favorite part about writing?
Being appreciated!!!!
Q: Who would you consider to be your top three favorite writers?
For poetry I would say, John Keats, P.B. Shelley and Sylvia Plath.
Q: When not writing, how do you charge your creative batteries?
I read, and listen to a lot of music.
Q: How do you get past the frustrations that come with trying to be a successful writer?
As a learner, it’s just writer’s block I have to face. I usually try to cope with it by writing very short verses and fine-tuning them some other day, or just leave it that day and begin fresh on the next.
Q: What do you do when you have several book/piece ideas?
I try to put them all down.
Q: Do you have an agent representing you/your work to publishers?
No.
Q: Have you ever been published/self published?
I have been published in an anthology, named Sudden Thunder, by Silver Bow Publishing, New Westminster, Canada. Also, my poetry has been featured on the Brinks Gallery Café, and Woman’s Philanthropy Blog.
Q: What genre(s) describes your work?
Poetry, mostly romance, nature and confessional poetry.
Q: What kind of music do you favor? Does it reflect in your writing?
Usually I prefer soft romantic numbers, I like Pop, and Country music, and on those “down in the doldrum” days, Linkin Park and Hinder does really help!
Q: Do you write under a pseudonym? If so, what is the story behind it?
No.
Q: What/who motivates to you to write?
The urge to excel.
Q: Do you follow a writing system, a routine?
No.
Q: What is your LEAST favorite part of being a writer?
Nothing as such!
Q: Do you have your work showcased on any website?
Yes, I have my work showcased on my Facebook page. Strings of my Heart, Mohana Das
Q: What does the future hold for you as a writer?
It would be getting a book of my own poems published.
*Below you can enjoy a few selected pieces by this poet*
~
INTROSPECTION
Moonlight shimmers convex on her parasol,
dimple chinned,
like pomegranate buds of
an affectionate red.
Playing on her scar-less skin,
faintly ash against stars -
trembling, shivering
ripe with opiate undertones.
Deep in eyes so deep,
chords I’m scared to touch, of
ominous love, imbued with fragility
like origami dragonflies.
~
UNTITLED
Scarlett–
turn the sunshine down.
I have forgotten my lemonade,
between all these curling behind
yellowing pages of untitled poetry,
like wasps.
Caught in the reflection of these glasses,
I see my face in eyes
(not your dark irises, dear),
but eyes not present anymore
save in that rude glare.
The periwinkles wilt, upset,
mumbling songs, the same songs
he sang to you last spring,
every spring.
That was a long time ago, wasn’t it? Long before
the moon left with
her promises.
Deeper in the amethyst,
cold.
And I retired, a little late perhaps, to our hearts.
~
AS I WATCHED YOU
The light was paler than the pall of dawn,
You were standing framed by rain,
Half-shaded in the shadows of a receding moon,
Eerily close – a delicate silhouette -
Smudged to perfection.
My heart knelt, devote, at your altar,
Rubbing purple fumes off these dark eyelids,
Whose pellucid whispers fill the vaults of Existence now.
Every tear, sheathed in uncertainty, is dead -
Their iridescent ash sleeps safe in my chrysalis.
Colors have returned, permeating my iris.
Emptiness, all alone this tepid night,
Stains my eye-glasses with nostalgia -
Red like the opium buds upon your lips,
Savoring satisfaction, distracted.
~
I
They will take back their promises, and run,
Leaving us alone in the greenish dark of forbidden dreams,
Amidst memories that fill emptiness, with presences,
Unseen, but felt, morbid,
Deep, somewhere, in the voids of disturbed sleep,
As we weep, half-broken, without a choice.
Purple twilight will wane away,
Sipping poisoned starlight, and beneath shadows bright,
We will hear her sing,
Wooing the night with shameless fantasies writ on her brow,
In some ancient form, another lie,
As we lie, decaying, deceived by faithless sympathy.
~
IT RAINS QUIETLY
It rains, quietly,
nightlong,
Upon the grey city,
Where headlights wink,
Past stoned traffic lights,
Kicking up histories from the Mahananda’s throat,
Rough like art on handmade paper.
Anxiety reigns insomniac eyes,
Threading voices round false faces,
On which stoic memories trip,
Full to the lips with local beer.
Watery feet open the regular ball
On tear-stained asphalt that sparkles,
With little raindrops sliding down asbestos roofs –
their million sighs hushed brutally.
Lullabies whimper,
Assaulted by dreams,
Who wash neon flashes with insolent stares,
From cracked truck mirrors,
Pirouetting past lawless pubs,
While it rains, quietly,
nightlong.
~
UPON A DEW DROP
She looks at herself,
Mesmerized.
And those innocent wide eyes laugh with child-like glee.
Suddenly she puts her little hand upon her mouth,
looks around like a timid fawn,
and laughs again,
Sprinkling music upon the frozen air,
Where it glitters, disobeying gravity, like honeycombs of Ecstasy.
She looks at herself once more,
Pouts in feigned disappointment,
And pushes a stray strand of her luscious coal-black hair from her face,
and looks again -
bubbling with admiration.
Satisfied now,
She stares on at her celestial form,
As moon glow flows like syrupy ripples from her alabaster skin,
Tracing in detail, every curve,
like the pitter-patter of rain upon dreams.
Sapphire slice of mirror unstained,
A droplet of stillness that reflects clarity,
amplifying Beauty in its depths…
She looks at herself,
In the half-dome of dew upon a leaf, then
Giggles.
And presses a finger upon her pink lips, and
looks around like a timid fawn.
Stealthily she pokes a finger through the sparkling bead,
It bursts,
And an evanescent rainbow blinks into her eyes.
She bites her lower lip playfully, and
Laughing like an unschooled girl
Disappears in the descending mist.
Check out Mohana’s facebook page: Strings of My Heart
