SAMANTHA TERRELL - POET / EIC, SHINE Poetry Series
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April 11~ AMANDA HAYDEN

4/11/2025

 
SHINE poetry fans, today I'm pleased to bring you three beautifully crafted poems by Poet Laureate for Sinclair College (Dayton, Ohio), Amanda (Mandy) Hayden. Varied in both topic and form, these poems truly showcase her skills. Thank you, Mandy, for sharing your words with SHINE!

When You Said “No” to Seeing the David
(A Pantoum to my Cousin’s Ex)

When you said “no” to seeing the David
you missed his fervent magnetic pull of your psyche
to colossal, veined hands so human in God’s favor
dozens of incomplete creations wrestling to be freed

you missed his fervent magnetic pull of your psyche
three years’ gestation reveal from one marble block
dozens of incomplete creations wrestling to be freed
artists before tried, failed, declared it insufferable

three years’ gestation reveal from one marble block
Firenze brick by brick barrier for three years of war
artists before tried, failed, declared it insufferable
like you, who could not be trusted to any wonder

Firenze brick by brick barrier for three years of war
to colossal, veined hands so human in God’s favor
like you, who could not be trusted to any wonder
when you said “no” to seeing the David

Old Men Don’t Cry (Song of Arranmore)
after Jerry Early’s “I’ll Go”

North-northwest pounding snow
sleet-smacked drizzled slige
bending bright red painted flowers
dotting seashore’s saltwater veins
thick tongued island men
did what must be done
eight said, I’ll go, stepped forthright
for eighteen sailors stranded by storm
muscling waves cliff high, hunkering
black gales’ howling ice spit, sharpened
into Donegal darts until twenty-six
were bow-brought, tales of survival
beaded for lighthouse wampum, spirits
lingering low tide, foothold fracture, jut of joint
they said back then old men don’t cry
until their grandchildren sing of Arranmore,
briny ballads of blood born sea
marine melodies of bone mist sky

Do You Dream in Color?

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Amanda Hayden's debut collection, American Saunter, released 2024 (FlowerSong Press). Her chapbook, How to Tie Tobacco, and second collection, Old World Wings, will release in 2025 (Wild Ink Publishing). A Pushcart Prize nominee and the 2023 River Heron Editor's Choice Prize winner, she lives in Ohio with her family and many rescue babies.

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    SHINE - International Poetry Series

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    From the international poetry community, we have a "luxury of stars," as Sylvia Plath might say, and it is my honor to provide a home for their words through SHINE Poetry Series.
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    NOW IN PRINT!

    Stars Over the Dordogne
    BY SYLVIA PLATH
    Stars are dropping thick as stones into the twiggy
    Picket of trees whose silhouette is darker
    Than the dark of the sky because it is quite starless.
    The woods are a well. The stars drop silently.
    They seem large, yet they drop, and no gap is visible.
    Nor do they send up fires where they fall
    Or any signal of distress or anxiousness.
    They are eaten immediately by the pines.

    Where I am at home, only the sparsest stars
    Arrive at twilight, and then after some effort.
    And they are wan, dulled by much travelling.
    The smaller and more timid never arrive at all
    But stay, sitting far out, in their own dust.
    They are orphans. I cannot see them. They are lost.
    But tonight they have discovered this river with no trouble,
    They are scrubbed and self-assured as the great planets.

    The Big Dipper is my only familiar.
    I miss Orion and Cassiopeia's Chair. Maybe they are
    Hanging shyly under the studded horizon
    Like a child's too-simple mathematical problem.
    Infinite number seems to be the issue up there.
    Or else they are present, and their disguise so bright
    I am overlooking them by looking too hard.
    Perhaps it is the season that is not right.

    And what if the sky here is no different,
    And it is my eyes that have been sharpening themselves?
    Such a luxury of stars would embarrass me.
    The few I am used to are plain and durable;
    I think they would not wish for this dressy backcloth
    Or much company, or the mildness of the south.
    They are too puritan and solitary for that--
    When one of them falls it leaves a space,

    A sense of absence in its old shining place.
    And where I lie now, back to my own dark star,
    I see those constellations in my head,
    Unwarmed by the sweet air of this peach orchard.
    There is too much ease here; these stars treat me too well.
    On this hill, with its view of lit castles, each swung bell
    Is accounting for its cow. I shut my eyes
    And drink the small night chill like news of home.

    ~~~

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  • ABOUT
  • BOOKS
  • PUBLICATIONS
  • SHINE Poetry Series
    • SUBMISSIONS
  • PROFESSIONAL AFFILIATIONS
    • CONNECT
  • POETIC TRINITAS