Pre-order Megha Sood’s Book “My Body is Not an Apology” by Finishing Line Press

Hope you are doing well. I’m writing this email to share the news with you that my chapbook “My Body Is Not an Apology” by award-winning Finishing Line Press is now open for advance sales. The chapbook will come out on October 1, 2021. The advance sales period is from Jun 07- -August 06, 2021. The number of copies sold during this period will determine my press run.

To those of you who have ordered: “My Body is Not an Apology”, A BIG THANK YOU from the bottom of my heart and hope you will enjoy the book and those who wish to purchase a copy when it is released, you can preorder through the publisher for $14.99 + 2.99 Shipping in the following two ways

“My Body Is Not an Apology” can be pre-ordered ONLINE here

and can be pre-ordered by snail mail here ( Mail Order Form Attached)

By mail only: If ordering multiple copies, shipping is $2.99 for the first copy and $1.99 for each additional copy.

Finishing Line Press
PO Box 1626
Georgetown, KY 40324

Advance Praise for the Chapbook

My Body is Not An Apology is a testimony of female rebellion and a journey of self-discovery in a most wanted and unwanted way. The poems roar to voice the pain of silent torture, cruelty, and agony of a woman’s heart to reclaim her dignity not only as a female but also as an individual. This book is a fierce approach to life in poetry, and the poet dissects the ironies of women’s existence with razor-sharp language, intellect, and courage like Simone de Beauvoir. In the poet’s own words, it is a triumphant proclamation and an unfettered declaration.
–Kalpna Singh-Chitnis (Poet, Writer, and Filmmaker)

Sometimes with acerbic irony, sometimes with wise comeuppance, but never with hopeless resignation no matter how bleak the refracted rays of reality, Megha’s stanzas find their way through the blind alleys of patriarchy and misogyny looking it unblinking in the eye. The vulnerability of her perception is also her strength, as each stanza duals with difficult truths using the female body and the form of poetry as weapons of grit and gumption. This little book is a fist of fury and unveiling.
–Rochelle Potkar, Author of Paper Asylum & Bombay Hangovers

These poems recognize the body as the ‘eye of the storm’ in the turbulent churning of our age. The guttural cry of the feminine forges these poems with a primal rawness cast in images as varied as radishes, pickles, broken book spines, and armchairs. Megha Sood joins her unapologetic voice with urgency to erase any error of ambiguity, ‘You don’t own shit’. These poems will ‘sit like a welt’ on the tongue of the world.
–Usha Akella, Poet & Founder, Matwaala, South Asian Diaspora Poetry Festival

A unique feminist exploration through the written word, investigating the body and the world society overlays atop women, Megha Sood does justice uncovering, discovering, and discarding herself to find an inexorably beautiful woman within. Sood’s My Body Is Not an Apology chisels away at the construct our society imposes on women, revealing an exemplar poet of the highest caliber.
–Joshua Corwin, author of Becoming Vulnerable

Megha Sood’s “My Body is Not an Apology” is a powerful debut with poetry that contains multitudes. These poems are fierce and unapologetic as they explore the toxic culture around gender-based discrimination and reproductive rights. Sood crafts with cutting precision as we read about personal experience and the influence of these issues in the wider world. Far from a desperate cry of the disenfranchised, these poems raise a fist and demand to be heard from a position of strength. Woven in and around every poem is the question that asks: what would life be like if we could change this? This book is a clarion call to eradicating gender-based injustice. It is also a book full of hope and empowerment.
–Juliette van der Molen, Poet, Writer,Feminist

My Body is Not an Apology by Megha Sood is a woman’s journey through gender-based discrimination. It is a cry and a plea as Sood questions, “How can you live a life like a broken spine of a book?” In her poems, we see a parallel to Sylvia Plath, and her words bring alive the voices of the Bronte Sisters, Emily Dickinson, and Phyllis Wheatley. At the same time, we see similarities to Sarojini Naidu’s rage and certitude when Sood says, “But I never give up …as I learned from the footsteps of warriors.” Sood’s My Body is Not An Apology is a whimper, a roar, an awakening in the feminist world.
–Meenakshi Mohan, Ed.D., Professor, writer, painter, critic

Megha Sood’s poems show a vulnerability that is welded to resilience in remarkably ingenious ways because poetry occupies the interstice between the felt and the unspoken.

Don’t let the aroma leave the pickle jar
Keep the lid tight
my granny used to say–
Some things are better left unspoken. (Even My Grief Should Be Productive)

Here’s the wisdom of an entire civilization. Sometimes it comes pickled in a jar. Call it Indian or South Asian, or what you will. It teaches you how to hold one’s own, anywhere.
–Lakshmi Kannan, Poet, Novelist, Short story writer, and Translator.

Megha Sood’s chapbook, My Body Is Not An Apology is exactly what the title says. The human body is not an apology for anyone. It’s not meant to make us feel ashamed simply for being born as we are, for existing, for belonging to any race, religion, gender, age, or any diversity markers that exist in our world. Our body is also not space where anyone can reside with abuse, disdain, or evil. Our body is a temple where our soul lives protected and safe. Megha through her deeply sensitive and poignant poems urges readers to ponder, deliberate, and act upon ensuring that our body is not an apology. Megha’s poems are fierce and tender at the same time. They are like raging storms or quiet whispers; both compel us to listen, look and consider. Megha delves into a plethora of issues that plague the human mind and in consequence the body. She questions and pulls the reader back again and again to her poems leaving behind a memory of heightened awareness. Very few writers can do as such. This collection of twenty-five poems will surely leave a mark upon your heart. Among the contemporary diaspora writers, Megha Sood is one to definitely read!
–Anita Nahal, poet, professor, flash fictionist & children’s writer. Find her works at:

“I would venture to guess that Anon, who wrote so many poems without signing them, was often a woman.”—Virginia Woolf, A Room of One’s Own

The gripping, riveting poems of Megha Sood’s chapbook ‘My Body Is Not An Apology’ carries the inherent legacy of the truths that our exemplary literary predecessors Virginia Woolf, Maya Angelou, Sylvia Plath, Nikki Giovani, Alice Walker, Kamala Das, and others, embodying unabashed feminism, upheld in their poetic creations.

When the poet utters her angst and her rhetoric reflects a discourse, built around the quintessential strength of a woman, these lines are born from her pen: “My body is not an apology/ it’s a roar: a declaration/ an unapologetic/ unabashed/ straight truth in your face/ a war cry:/ a deafening scream from the silence.” These lines hit the nail at just the right place, confronting the age-old power dynamics of a patriarchal social structure. As a strong woman of color, as a sensitive poet, her verses in the collection are like smoking cinders of the thinking feminine voice, empowering and liberating the feminine psyche. In the growth of her poetic voice, she has successfully absorbed the little nuances of her Indian roots and her grandmother’s legacy of truth (reflected in the poem ‘Even My Grief Should Be Productive), at the same time, having the deep insight of a woman acknowledging that her ‘body goes from a shade darker than yesterday’, as she gives birth to her ‘own revolution’. In the collection, the body and being of the poet as a woman reaches its zenith of celebration as she categorically unfolds the themes of the feminine identity, body politics, repression of womanhood, and also, the rampant rhetorics of violence ingrained in our postmodern society. Her voice is both subtle and empowering, essential and redeeming, hence the chapbook will indeed be an asset in the ever-evolving arena of feminist writing and art.
–Lopa Banerjee, Critically acclaimed author, poet, translator, editor from Texas, USA

Hoping that you support this little poet in her creative endeavor.


Megha Sood
Associate Editor| Life and Legends (USA)
Assistant Poetry Editor | MookyChick (UK)
Poetry Editor | Indie Blu(e) Press (USA)
Collaborator | Life in Quarantine, Stanford University, USA
Advocacy Member| United Nation Association-US Chapter
Website| |
Facebook |
Twitter | @meghasood16

WolfPack Contributor Bio: Megha Sood

#StopTheHate Poetry Challenge for Social Justice, Injustice Poetry, Essays, Rants & Unity

George Floyd, Mural, Houston Texas

This poetry shouldn’t be a challenge. This will be a celebration of unity & a place to unleash any sadness, tensions, exhaustion regarding the ongoing unjust killings due to racist ideologies & terrorist who like to re-invent their own history to match an idea in their head that was never theirs. Give us your feelings, give us your words. Tell us what you can do to encourage others, Tell us how you can help stop political & blue corruption, systemic racism, and most importantly give us words that you feel will stop these deaths.

It has been a year since George Floyd, longer for Breonna Taylor, longer for the shit that was Jim Crow Laws, Slavery, don’t forget Rodney King, don’t forget Amadou Diallo, Trayvon Martin, Tamir Rice, Rekia Boyd, thousands upon thousands others. Martin Luther King Jr gunned down for change. The leaders that preached for change always met with resistance. Stop this hate America!

Poem #1 by Catrice Greer

Fevers of the Mind Interview Catrice Greer w/poetry “Yearning Through the Fog” & “Cortical Cartography”

Check below link for what Catrice and other poets are doing for the Cheltenham Poetry Festival Events.

Come Home  a poem for George Floyd (June 7, 2020 Catrice Greer) 

These wombs, sacred,
we build placenta worlds of blood and bone 
cord by cord, cells churning with life
a zygotic landscape 

s  ..  a  ..  f ..   e

safe from gunshots, lethal force, blue bias, blows
safe from bent-tongued accusations, chokeholds, grief
tears and pain light-years away
the amniotic sac aglow 
you hear only my voice 

Mommy … 
I walked with you, my love, my sun
floating close to my own heartbeat 
tethered in the mitochondrial house 
we are one
my peace, your peace

my child, to lose you to this world 
that does not know you 
never carried you
is not the deep-rooted tree of life I birthed 
a premature exit is not the afterbirth of my labor

Call my name
when the end is near
I will come again for you
I will come again for you, my angel 
my sweetness 
you will reside here with me, rest in peace. 
Come home.  


Poem #2 Links to my social justice poems on this blog & other links

2 Social Justice poems by David L O’Nan (Archaic Motorcycle Breath and Like Bullets From the Cowboys)

Poem: Injustice: Can You Say Her Name? (Pouvez-vous) by David L O’Nan

Above is a link from my wife HilLesha's blog 
HilLesha is a mixed-race writer, blogger, co-editor, mother, wife & so much more.   *this was from her blog, any content about contests is no longer available*

(c) HilLesha O’Nan

Poem #3 link to R.D. Johnson’s poems about civil rights & social justice 4 Poems by R.D. Johnson : Malcolm & Martin, Angels, Dr. King’s Dream & February 1st (re-post)

Poem #4 link to Troy Jackson’s Essay “We the People” from the Anthology An Essay “We the People” by Troy Jackson (from Fevers of the Mind Press Presents the Poets of 2020)

Poem #5 link to Samantha Terrell’s social justice poetry 3 social justice poems by Samantha Terrell : “Advocacy” “Who We Are” & “Hurry Up Justice”

Poem #6 Stop the Hate Poem by Sarika Jaswani

Below the lambent candor of periwinkle sky
Beneath redolent shades of sovereign sun
In a garden of remembrance lays a Martyr

Farther from littered complexities
Yonder of stinking grudges

Away from leaking old bottles of comparisons
Mildew and rotting timber of America's foundation

Off the beaten track
Floyd breathes beyond color of skin

Where grief ceases to be transient
And shuns mute palette of emotions

At the end of rainbow
where they each call out and
Say their names 
There rests a harbinger of hope and change.

Poem #7 Able & Sable Hearts in Color & Deed by Pasithea Chan

The world is a stable filled with creatures both able & unstable.
Those who are able have hearts capable of empathy towards their community.
But those who are unstable have hearts so sable they cripple humanity.
Their differences define a life of dignity for the rest of humanity.

Able hearts play their parts sorting people by acts
not words in the name of equality & justice
But sable hearts take part in breaking people's hearts
sorting them by color to spread terror in the name of service.

Able hearts have peaceful minds that analyze words
to sort what they fear from what they see or hear.
But sable hearts have broken minds that pander to their fear
blinding their eyes with what their hearts steer.

Able hearts are driven by compassion to foster good even if late
because for them right and wrong are black and white.
But sable hearts are driven by obsession to spread blind hate
because for them freedom is a bait to catch black enjoying whats white.

Able hearts will do what's fair because they care
But sable hearts will just be there to hunt those unaware.
Like day and night, one is light bringing wealth
the other is dark with crime bringing death.

Show me a man who ran & I'll show you fear from those near.
But show me a man who stood his ground & I'll show  you justice.
There are many George Floyds and Breonna Taylors out there
but sadly there are few who truly care or dare
to say times have changed yet sable hearts haven't
Because right and wrong  are not the only black & white
In a world where grey is for those who chose to bray
blind lies to hide behind a colorful rind.

In the end, hearts and minds dictate the kind
of life we lead not our colors because we all bleed Red
So how can color decide who is good or bad?
We are all one; color is just one kind of human kind
I'm sure we can agree that deeds can sort the human kind.

Wolfpack Contributor Bio: Pasithea Chan

Poetry: Nine by Anneka Chambers

Nine Minutes I Fight For Life
In an instant my body is slammed to the ground
Nine Minutes I Fight For Life
Exclaims from the public echo all around

Nine Minutes I Fight For Life
I am unarmed, handcuffed and I pose no threat
Nine Minutes I Fight For Life
Enforcement of this kind is unlawful, do you have no mercy, nor any regret?

Nine Minutes I Fight For Life
I am pleading with you, please stop!
Nine Minutes I Fight For Life
Emotionless is the expression of every standing cop

Nine Minutes I Fight For Life
I lay here helplessly, one against four
Nine Minutes I Fight For Life
Excessively this Officer pins me to the floor

Nine Minutes I Fight For Life
I am in excruciating pain
Nine Minutes I Fight for Life
Explain why you have chosen my soul to claim?

Nine Minutes I Fight For Life
I hurt until I bleed
Nine Minutes I Fight For Life
Executing your act of violence, as I cry and plead

Nine Minutes I Fight For Life
I cannot breathe, I cannot move, I only feel
Nine Minutes I Fight For Life
Encourage this Officer to remove his knee, from where he kneels

Nine Minutes I Fight For Life
I am doing all I can to hold on
Nine Minutes I Fight For Life
Every cell in my being is fighting this wrong

Nine Minutes And I Will Not Survive
I love you family, colleagues and friends
Nine Minutes And I Will Not Survive
Eventually My Life Ends.


More Links: including a poem by Wolfpack Contributor Megha Sood WolfPack Contributor Bio: Megha Sood

Poems by Laura Grevel:

Texas Freeze Over—February 16, 2021
On that freezing eve in a winter storm, where nothing was the norm,
eighteen-year-old Rodney Reese was walking home down a Plano street.
He’d finished his shift at Walmart, groceries in hand,
still had a good ways to go, slipping and stumbling in ice and snow,
still had a good ways to go, when they showed up and slowed.

He heard the shout, saw the colors of the car,
felt a shiver run over his memory wars:
remembered what happened to
George Floyd in Minnesota,
Eric Garner in New York,
Ahmaud Arbery in Georgia,
Daniel Prude in New York.

Did the cops remember the truth as they told him to stop?
That they’d been sent to make a wellness check?
Not to be a pain in the friggin’ neck?
That the state was now a disaster zone
of ice and snow, bodies freezing in homes?
Did they remember that he was a man?
That warnings were given by the weathermen?
That warnings were shouted by the BLM?

They asked him to stop; he sweated and labored on.
If only he could get home or where someone could see what was going on.
He peered resolute through the snow, through the dark, and he prayed.

“Where you going, son?” 
“I’m going home.”
“Why you walkin’ in the road?”
“Sidewalk’s icy, man.”
“Where you goin’?  You need a ride.”
“I’m goin’ home.  Don’t touch me!”
The cops get out, come close.
“Why don’t you stop?  We want to talk.”
“Don’t touch me, man!”
They grab his arms, cuff him.  “This is an investigation!”

So though it makes no sense to anyone with a few cells of gray,
they charged him for walking home—charged him with being a pedestrian in a roadway.
He spent the night in jail, managed to keep his heart from fail, managed to keep from other travail.
Next day the police chief let him go, said they should ‘a’ taken him home,
didn’t know what was in those cops minds, was it race?  The chief couldn’t say.

Rodney, when asked later why he didn’t want to stop for the cops, said,
“I seen all this stuff with George Floyd.
It hurts, man.”

People Are Looking

They just keep killing black men—
these self-appointed vigilantes and cops—killing
men jogging down the street like Ahmaud Arbery
or men coming out of a shop like George Floyd
and the BLM started marching
and the Trump response
sent an Armageddon of armored cops and henchmen
to attack people who were not armored
who were protesting the murders of black men.
A Star Wars attack on regular people,
and the protesters march wearing Covid masks,
march those streets, through smoke and tear gas,
and the robotic cops bear down bear down brutalize
and my mind races to find the puzzle pieces
because I seem to have missed something.

I am seven.  I walk into a church in East Austin
with my mother, brother, sister.
Moselle who cleans our house and takes care of us kids
invited us to her daughter’s wedding.  And when we walk in
and walk down the aisle and sit down, my heart
begins to thud because people are looking, then not looking, at us.
We are the only white people there.

I am 27.  I walk into a church for the wedding of
Sara.   She is a friend, a co-worker,
a fellow accountant at the State Auditor’s Office.
And when I walk in and walk down the aisle
and sit down, my heart begins to thud
because something is similar, something is wrong,
people are looking, then people are not looking, at us.
We are the only white people there.

And my mind races to find the puzzle pieces
as a despot’s robot army marches on people
who are protesting the murders of men—
murders because of the color of their skin.
An obscene scene of spleen sent by
a President who is more mean than man,
sending a smokescreen to make a show
that is the only way he knows.
And my heart thuds and my mind races to find the puzzle pieces:
1968, 1988, 2020,
and I look back and ask

Sara, where were the other people from the office?
Why did none of them come to your wedding?
During workdays, we all worked together.
During lunches, we ate out together.
During out-of-town audits, we travelled together.

My God, Sara, I remember back then
I heard one or two excuses
busy, kids . . . but most had no kids—
most of our co-workers were single, and white.

Oh, Sara, how blind have I been?

WolfPack Contributor Bio: Megha Sood

Megha Sood is a Pushcart-nominated Poet, Editor, Author, and Blogger from New Jersey. An Associate Poetry Editor at journals MookyChick(UK), Life and Legends (USA), and Partner in Literary project “Life in Quarantine” with Stanford University, USA. Over 600+ Works featured including Poetry Society of New York, American Writers Review, Rising Phoenix Review, Kissing Dynamite, etc.

Recipient of Poet Fellowship from MVICW( Martha’s Vineyard Institute of Creative Writing), National Level Winner Spring Mahogany Lit Prize 2020, Three-Time State-level winner of NJ Poetry Contest.Second Place San Gabriel Valley Poetry Festival 2021, Finalist in Adelaide Literary Awards(2020), Poetry Super Highway (2020), Erbacce Prize(2020), TWIBB( 2020), iWomanGlobalAwards(2020).Nominated “Author of the Year” and “Author of the Month” by NY-based Spillwords Press.

Works selected numerous times by Jersey City Writers group, Jersey City Theater Center, and Department of Cultural Affairs for the Arts House Festival. Co-Edited anthologies ( “The Medusa Project”, Mookychick) and (“The Kali Project, Indie Blu(e) Press). Poetry Judge for the SLAM Poetry competition, IITD Kaizen’21, and State level NAMI NJ Poetry Contest 2021. Panelist in WNBA (Women’s National Book Association) DC “Women in Poetry’s Future”. Performing venues includes Nuyorican Cafe, BrownStone Poets, OceanSide Library, Historic Apple Tree House, and many poetry festivals including “Anantha” by Samyukpta Poetry, Jersey City Poetry Festival.

Author of forthcoming Chapbook ( “My Body is Not an Apology”, Finishing line press, 2021) and Full Length (“My Body Lives Like a Threat”, FlowerSongPress,2021).Blogs at and tweets at @meghasood16

Thanks so much for your time and efforts.

Megha Sood
Associate Poetry Editor| Life and Legends (USA)
Assistant Poetry Editor | MookyChick (UK)
Poetry Editor | Indie Blu(e) Press (USA)
Collaborator | Life in Quarantine, Stanford University, USA
Website| |
Facebook |
Twitter | @meghasood16