SAMANTHA TERRELL - POET / EIC, SHINE Poetry Series
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March 5~ SEAN WANG

3/5/2026

 
Welcome back, poetry community. Today we're shining the spotlight on three poems by the talented Sean Wang. Please enjoy: Quarry Ledger, Salt-Stained Post, and Fuse Box Easter. Thank you, Sean, for sharing your work with SHINE international poetry series!

Quarry Ledger

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Salt-Stained Post

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Fuse Box Easter

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Sean Wang is a Pushcart Prize and Best Small Fictions nominated poet and PhD candidate. His poems appear or are forthcoming in West Trade Review, ONE ART, wildscape. literary journal, among others. He can be found on Instagram at @sean_wang1997.

March 3~ STRIDER MARCUS JONES

3/3/2026

 
Today, SHINE welcomes back UK-based poet Strider Marcus Jones, with three new poems:  The Patterns, The Sun Drips Down, and This Now My Thoughts. It's a joy to read his work. Thanks, Strider, for sharing!

The Patterns

somewhere
in everywhere
everybody
happens
in the patterns,
like flocks
of rocks
gathered to the lobby
of Saturn's
rings,
graded
and sorted
into ugly and beautiful
useful
things;
all something
out of nothing
but not absolute nothing:
it seems matter
that Mad Hatter
and plectrums of light
make tunes of self similarity settle and fight
repeating this same existence
without remembered resistance.

The Sun Drips Down

i don't feel like a stranger
in your ease
as i come to know
your fast and slow
above, below
waves and seas
roving like a ranger.
a draft through the floor
moves the closed to door,
spills wax, wafts candlelight,
and in music more slight
behind words said
becomes a squeezed breeze-
that warms in and out
where all love's doubt
left and fled.
as the shades of strings we shed,
uncoil and leave our head,
the sun drips down
ultraviolet turning brown
the sated flesh,
whose oliveness
soon condenses,
freeing long suppressed senses
to understand each other's expectation
knowing love is more than our creation. ​

This Now My Thoughts

​this now my thoughts
open at the image of your name
won't be revealing
the secrets they explain-
do you do the same
on these out walks
remembering the rain
drop fractals on us feeling.
back we go again,
without preachers
or bad teachers,
harvest high with hope
just us and frayed strands
of poetry and bands
on this bridge of notes
our mind spans.
in give we've got
the bloom of this plot
in garden to river
shaping start and stop
the melting clock
of body quake then quiver
through the Dreamtime day night
and soul spirit lit by landscape light.
we climb the Orange Rock
to revert back far
but have no Gaelic croft
to live in who we are.
it has changed hands
until the purpose of these lands
shoots dissenting music out of birds
and sucks all truth from ancient words
so existence is
another language.
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Strider Marcus Jones is a poet, law graduate, and former civil servant from Salford, England with proud Celtic roots in Ireland and Wales. He is the editor and publisher of Lothlorien Poetry Journal; a member of The Poetry Society, nominated for the Pushcart Prize x4 and Best of the Net x3. His five published books of poetry (https://stridermarcusjonespoetry.wordpress.com/) reveal a maverick, moving between cities, playing his saxophone in smoky rooms.

    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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