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Today, we turn the spotlight on Seattle native, Sophia Rollins, and her poems "The Year of the Salmon" (previously published by Poetry Super Highway and La Piccioletta Barca), "Frying Pan," and "Today, Tomorrow, Or Until it Takes Hold." Thank you, Sophia, for sharing your words with SHINE! The Year of the Salmon The summer we stopped speaking, the salmon returned to the river. Their bodies shimmered like living flames in the cold green current, scales flashing silver, pink, and that bruised, deep red of beginnings nearing their end. You watched them once, quietly, from the bridge, hands tucked into your pockets like you were afraid to touch the moment. The air was thick enough to chew, with cedar and rain, and the gulls wheeled above us, their cries were sharp enough to carve the sky. “They always come back,” you said, but I could hear the doubt in your voice. What does it mean to return when the journey costs so much? I wondered if they felt the pull as pain or something sweeter-- an ache that keeps them moving, even as their bodies break apart. That fall, I found a salmon carcass wedged between river rocks, its eye clouded over, its skin torn but still glowing faintly. I wanted to show it to you, to ask if you thought it was worth it, the struggle, the return, the inevitable end. The river kept rushing on, in its perpetual hurry, pulling pieces from the flaking body, and funneling them into the mouth of the sea, agape. Frying Pan You once told me my pupil looked like a frying pan. A freckle near my iris creating the illusion – wide, empty, a little too hot around the edges. I laughed, and you smiled like you´d just shared a secret joke the world would never hear. But I didn’t know how to take it. How hadn't anyone noticed this before? What was so funny about me? Once, I dissected myself in the mirror, my eyes too large in the dim light, wondering if I had become a skillet, ready to scorch everything I touched. We´d sit in the kitchen, fingers stained with butters and fat, your hands melting against mine as you flipped pancakes that never turned out right. I don’t know why we still tried. I would look at you, watch you stir the batter like it was something sacred, wondering if I could ever be something steady, something solid enough to fill the hollow parts of us. Something fluid and oozing that grows and rises, with edges that curl with time. Once, in the middle of the night, you kissed me on the forehead, and it felt like you were trying to warm me, pressing the heat of your lips into a place I couldn’t reach. We laughed about my frying pan pupil, but there was a silence between the words, fluid and oozing, a space that grew bigger with each passing day, until it felt like the space was all that was left. Now when I look in the mirror, I see the frying pan, the freckle, the forehead, and I feel the quiet heat that still lingers – a slow burn, a reminder of something that never quite boiled over. Today, Tomorrow, or Until it Takes Hold The hours are nothing but a scrape, a shallow wound where time has worn its edge. Each moment bleeds in measured, cruel escape, like water running from a jagged ledge. The air is thick with what I cannot say, with words too heavy to be born, too late – they sit like stones, where every Thought will stay, Unspoken, tangled, in a silent weight. This house has learned the language of silence, Its walls a hush, its rooms too wide for sound. And still, the space between us grows immense, As if the distance pulls, without a bound. Tomorrow wears its hunger like a crown, Its hands outstretched to drag the whole world down. Tomorrow, then, will trace its endless thread, A pattern drawn from something half forgotten – A tangled weave of what remains unsaid, Its pulse too faint, its edges often rotten. How can we grasp the things that slip away, That slip like water, through our fingers’ grasp? What promise holds when love begins to fray, Its trembling form unsure of what to clasp? Each passing moment marks its fading place, Leaving behind the shape of something real, A ghost of tenderness, now hard to trace, Too faint to hold, too sharp to truly feel. Today is wrapped in tattered, shifting cloth, A whisper left to wander in the broth. Or until it takes hold, as time will do, And gathers what it can from all we’ve left. It pulls us in, though we were never sure – Its hands both soft and firm, its grip adept. In this we change, in loss we´re redefined, A shape made whole by breaking, Slowly, slow. The ache we felt – still sharp and yet benign – Becomes the burden we learn to bestow. For every bruise we wear, a mark of grace, A quiet song that hums beneath the skin. What once was gone now finds its truest place, And still, the weight of it will settle in. Tomorrow takes the form of what remains, And in its pull, we find what loss sustains. So here I stand, with what I know to hold, Though it's not the weight I thought I’d keep. Tomorrow will not come as we were told, But as a shape that in its shifting seeps. What once was love is threaded through my bones, Woven into marrow, stitched into my skin. And when it breaks – if breaks it must – Unknown, It will return, the only way to win. Today, tomorrow, what we’ve learned will hold, Or scatter, still, as dust, as dreams unfold - A form that shifts, yet holds us in its fold, Until it takes us, soft and fierce, And bold. In every wound, a thread to wave and fold, Until it takes place, both soft and cold.  Sophia Rollins is a poet from Seattle, Washington, whose work explores themes of connection, loss, and memory. Drawing inspiration from past professors and the poets who have shaped her, she strives to capture the quiet, often complex moments of the human experience through vivid, reflective language. She currently resides in Asturias, Spain.
Today, SHINE online series welcomes Moroccan Amazigh Poet, Lamiae Zeriouh who brings us two poems which reflect on the internal and external struggles of life. Thank you, Lamiae, for sharing your words with SHINE. The Eternal Jest Life lies, And yet we trust its wit. It offers lessons, But we do not commit. It slaps us awake, But we swiftly omit. Its signs are clear, But we fail to admit. It grants fresh chances, Yet we squander it. When it re-lies, We trust it, still lit. “What fools you are,” life mocks, “Re-trusting every bit.” Wings Over WagesWorking hard, Waiting for a pay Much outlay of THIRTY DAYS I might not be in need of a MONTH'S pay, Instead, I need to form wings, and soar away – Sure! Soar away – Away.  Lamiae Zeriouh is a Moroccan Amazigh Researcher. She is currently a first-year Ph.D candidate in Digital Anthropology at the University of Sidi Mohamed Ben Abdellah, Faculty of Arts and Humanities, Dhar Al Mahraz, Fes, Morocco. She got her Master’s degree in Language, Communication & Society Studies with an MA Thesis focus on the Hegemony of News Media Discourse in War/Conflict times. Lamiae is a civic engagement enthusiast, with experience in language revitalization projects, a youth and women empowerment internship, and a digital narrative activism fellowship. She has also a profound passion for writing both prose and poetry, with a published short story in MonoNoAware Anthology, an Essay on “Political Communication in post-truth era” in the Culture and Identity Conference’s proceedings issue, an Eco-narrative in the international outlet Panorama: The Journal of Travel, Place, and Nature, and a Creative non-fiction paper published in the Anthology of Festive African Writing Vol.3 by BrittlePaper journal.
Today SHINE continues our recent foray into poems exploring the seasons with, "Whispers of Fall" (an appropriate one for our friends Down Under) and "One Restless Night." I hope no matter where you're from, that you'll enjoy these two nature poems by American poet, Richard McClellan. Thank you so much, Richard, for sharing your gift of words with SHINE! Whispers of FallGround covered in a haze, With a moonlight piercing afterglow, The shimmer is brazen, Filled by blowing leaves in tow. Giving hints of the change to come, Cool air creeps in at night, The Whispers of Fall migrate, Towards October's day of fright. The cordial days of fall Bring seasonal beliefs, After thy hot days of summer, With sounds of autumn relief. The Whispers of Fall, Make a joyous fellow, With the rustling of colored leaves, In their shades of Red and Yellow. One Restless NightOne Restless Night, Under a bright white moon, Live oak tree swaying, With a pesky raccoon. The night air is cool, Neath these warming stars, Getting warm in sheep's wool, Walking this trail so far. Enjoying the sights and sounds, Beneath the glowing moonlight, The wolves howl abound, Giving song with no daylight. The coyotes jabber in the distance, Heckling the deer below, The herd propagated with resistance, At this coyote and wolf show. ARTIST STATEMENT: Richard L. McClellan  I was born in Yellville, Arkansas (USA). I served in the U.S. Army, and I have traveled the world including Japan, Korea, Portugal, Italy, Canada, and most of the lower 48 United States and Alaska. My favorite place that I have visited is the Azores Islands in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. My hobbies include poetry, genealogy, motorcycling, crocheting, and knitting. Prior to an injury sustained in 2007, I enjoyed playing billiards, 8-ball, and 9-ball competitively. My educational background includes a Bachelor's Degree in Electronics from Southwest Missouri State University, and an Associates Degree in Electromechanical Technology from North Arkansas Community College. I've been writing poetry since 2011.
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SHINE - International Poetry Series
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.
NOW IN PRINT!
Stars Over the Dordogne
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