SAMANTHA TERRELL - POET / EIC, SHINE Poetry Series
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JENNIFER JONES

3/4/2024

 
Hello again, poetry fans! This month at SHINE, I'm delighted to feature the poetry of my long-time friend and fellow writer, Jennifer Jones. Jennifer has an evocative style, evident in these three, short but powerful, poems. Please be sure to check out her Bio below, to learn more about her fun and fruitful writing career. Thank you, Jennifer, for sharing your beautiful work with us.

Branches

Like lightning frozen
the blackened bark
against the whites of the sky’s eyes
our nerve endings
reaching

Face Forward

Your thoughts so precious you enclose yourself
Boxcar after box linked by the hitch
Over rickety tracks

Clinging to each anxiety
You follow fear
To the caboose

Crawl carefully in
Cementing a pattern
By your hand

In the arresting motion
You missed a crack that
Emits white light

St. Theresa

Said she’d send roses.
Singer, another friend,
tells me that I am in the habit
of turning every significant situation
into a poem. Kneeling, bent by weight,
I look up, eyes stinging and warm.
In front of me are 12 fresh, red.
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Jennifer Jones has had poetry published in Denver Quarterly, The Texas Observer, Open City, and Adanna. Her essays have been published in TimeOut Los Angeles, the Angelus, and Presence. She recited her poem, “Branches,” published here, to Woody Harrelson on the set of Zombieland upon his request. A recipient of the James A. Michener Grant for Writers, Jennifer, originally from Pittsburgh, PA, currently resides in Atlanta and has lived in London, Barcelona, Manhattan, Brooklyn, Austin, Savannah, and a few other cities; she averages a move every two years.

    SHINE - International Poetry Series

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    Click here for submissions and more
    From the international poetry community, we have a "luxury of stars," as Sylvia Plath might say, and it is SHINE's honor to provide a home for their words with the online Spotlight series as well as SHINE Quarterly. Click on the logo above to learn more. And...keep writing, keep shining!
    In poetry,
    Samantha Terrell, EIC
    SYLVIA PLATH
    Stars Over the Dordogne

    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
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