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Mona Dash

the poet

Mona Dash is the author of the memoir A Roll of the Dice: a story of loss, love and genetics, the novel Untamed Heart, and poetry collections A Certain Way and Dawn-drops. She holds a Masters in Creative Writing (with distinction), and her work has been both long and shortlisted in leading competitions such as Novel London 2020, SI Leeds Literary Award, Leicester Writes Short Story Prize and The Asian Writer Short Story Prize. Her short story collection, Let us look elsewhere, is due out in 2021 from Dahlia Publishing. Mona has an MBA and an engineering degree, works for a global tech firm, and lives in London.

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the poems


00:00 / 01:10

Born and raised an Indian; not living in India

now British, not born in Britain

a mother, working full time

a sales manager, a mother

a woman, a mother

a writer, a technocrat

an engineer, an artist

a businessperson, a poet

becoming more than I was meant to

Venn-diagram like I seek

finding intersectionality


implied: not Indian


implied: not British


implied: not a mother


implied: not a sales manager


implied: not a woman


implied: not a writer


implied: not an engineer


implied: not a businessperson


implied: a sense of erosion


implied: commonalities 

implied: a pinpoint

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Unsaid, Unwritten

00:00 / 00:59

Unseeing, unthinking
piece words unrelated
like flowers in a vase 
on the kitchen table
lark, larkspur, lavender

                                   When the night calls
                                   in words swallowed
                                   in a past forgotten
                                   eels, egalitarian, eccentric

                                                                                then it is morning
                                                                                slicing sun through clouds
                                                                                unopened eyes, sleepy sex
                                                                                a day to use, misuse
                                                                                harvest, hyacinth, harbour

                                   a month is over
                                   the thought still shattered
                                   ravaged and unformed
                                   the words meant 
                                   to disappear in bloodstreams
                                   vapid, victory, vilify

like Rodin’s Thinker 
count words on fingers
the tongue struggling still
to form the unformed
the pen curling, curling
to write the unwritten

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For Plath, for Love

00:00 / 01:25

Let us then recite Plath
Let us wear white bikinis and smile 
up at the sky, blue in our hearts as in the heavens
Let us sing mad-girl love songs and in its rhymes
search for a thunderbird, hold the bird close 
dip into its heart, tasting its blood, mine, yours
Let us find these Hughes-like men who love 
deeply, amorously, thick-honey words
that choke so well, filling us, filling us
with still, deep water, cleansing and drowning
who twist deep into us, severing
every self-belief, every little hope we have
burning away the mind-body-soul chain
Let us write, write crazily into the night
and let our words howl in the still dawn
and let us then open the oven door
and lay ourselves in, breathing in purist like
a single strain of air, lying still, lying 
while our children lie in their beds, dreaming, dreaming

Publishing credits

Implications: May We Borrow Your Country (Linen Press UK)

Unsaid, Unwritten: Sarasvati 057 (Indigo Dreams Publishing)

For Plath, for Love: exclusive first publication by iamb

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