School's bullying me

I feel like Edward Norton's character in the first few scenes of Fight Club at the moment.

Woot, Rejection!

Well, nothing new. Stylus, the official literary magazine of UMCP, rejected my submissions once again. When the same thing happened two years ago, I sat in a study lounge on the 7th floor of Ellicott Hall and cried my eyes out. Today, I don't feel hurt by it. I feel sad - it would have been nice to have something published before I graduated from here, but I guess that's not going to happen. However, my love for poetry really does heal all these little wounds I acquire at times like these.

I turned in 5 poems, all of which are on this blog. "Hero," "Restless," "Page 89," "Severance," and "Vestiges." The former three have been rejected thus far, so I'm not expecting the staff to like the other two. Wellllllll... hopefully I have readers on here, because I really do feel honored to have caring eyes fall on my work. In the end, I can't publish that feeling of gratitude anywhere - except in my heart.

Yes, I'm cheesy. Get over it ;)

Love,
Gowri

Vividity

Love is clarity
like never before –
Even the focus of tearful eyes
projects
the sharpest picture.

Page 89

Poetry,

I want you

to read me –

to flip to my single page

in this ever-growing

global anthology

and be drawn in initially by the

ink wells of my eyes

that have been dipped into

several times to write

the calligraphy of my smile.

You’ll find my first lines

brimming my underlids and flowing

with tears that glide

at night, dripping

free-versely down my neck,

my arms, my feet – the ink of the words sinking

into the different strophes

of my skin, staining

each filament inside.

Poetry, please, I don’t want you

to read me

with a lens – no postmodernism, no formalism –

but just as what you see:

macroscopic, single-spaced,

streaming consciously and enjambed

at each unpolished thought turn

the sulci of my grey matter takes.

Poetry, then scrutinize me with

a little bit of patience –

find yourself pondering

along the question marks

that these ears of mine shape

and analyze the stanza breaks between my ribs

exposing heart you maybe didn’t see

the first time.

Keep rereading me,

Poetry,

and gather all the details drawn

by the unexpected diction

carved into my mandible,

inaudible and permanent,

and decide for me my true setting.

Fold the corner, my shoulder,

to save my page,

keep me warm,

and

return to me,

Poetry.

Hypnosis

Watch This Video

I agree whole-heartedly (CLICK HERE PLEASE).

Unformity

release me from
your shaping me
I am like playdoh not legos
quickly unclink and clink back
into some other place and still unfalling is not
me I'm soft at times
but me solidified is a more
or less unchanging
not-breaking mold
drop me and
there isn't me anymore a while
scattered but
try to melt me with belly fire
weld me and surprise to you standing smiling
I will morph and balance most
basally.