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After a bereavement leave, I'm attempting to get back to work today by letting a little light through the cracks...and I can think of no better way to do that, than by welcoming the talented Terri McCord to SHINE International Poetry Series. Terri, who is an active member of the online poetry community, brings us: Bones As, The So-Called Angels, and Thinking of Recapitulation. Thank you, Terri, for sharing your work with SHINE. Bones AsOars, as walking sticks, as javelines, as fire stirrers, as magnets for clean-pickers, bones as canes, as door proppers, bones as reading material, as paperweights, bones as clothes hangers, bones as stock for soup, bones as sustenance, bones for clearing the air, bones as a compass, bones as a tell, the hands on a clock, bones as batons, or weapons of choice, bones as a guide to nonsense or mishmash, bones as what breaks the silence, what pins the heart, bones as a method of exchange rate all their own, what cracks the ceiling. The So-Called Angels have come down to look for what sanctuary is left or space to hide in snow where they can make their own snow angels and disappear or turn verdigris and frozen in a cemetery become the sculptures in town squares become placid as dammed water or silence their screams as we move around without them Thinking of RecapitulationThe only dance I did with my father, a square dance my mother insisted he take me to, and tonight, the sky a dramatic backdrop I don’t remember who first taught me Red sky at night, Sailors’ delight, but the sky is lovely, and Turner-ish which means smokey and glowing, and we are surrounded by an insanity that cannot be borne no matter how brave, a harsh grieving, the sky a pillow we cannot reach our heads low as we circle around and around and around do si do but the air is still gentle and patient and we can sit down for awhile and marvel  Terri McCord is a Pushcart and a Best of the Net nominee. Recent or forthcoming publications include Coastlines Anthology, The Westchester Review, Gargoyle, and Chiron Review. She is a previous recipient of a South Carolina Arts Commission juried fellowship.
Another week comes to a close with an offering of poetry from the international community. Today, SHINE welcomes Changming Yuan. I became acquainted with Changming through Alien Buddha Press, where we are press mates. Changming, who hails from Canada, brings us three poems: En Route; Anagramming Love: A Bilingualcultural Poem; and, a clever little prose poem, Nuanced Nuiscances. Thank you, Changming, for sharing your work with SHINE! En Route 1/ Attachment Detached I thought you’re the home To my little bird as to my Large soul But alas, I find You are just another hotel Along the long way to Dao 2/ Night Vision As the tide surges forward From the heart of the ocean A tiny white flower Is blooming Against all the dark noises Rising high along the coast 3/ Celebration of Sunlight Stop, Seeker, and set yourself In a moment of meditation If you listen to the sunshine With all your inner & outer ears You would hear A serene song of serendipities Anagramming Love: A Bilingualcultural Poem In English, ‘love’ is meaningless if anagrammed But if I add a letter, it will become a magic word Full of possibilities as in the case, say, where I Take off my glove, use a clove or olive to write A novel about how to solve my problem of ‘I’ As a vowel in a hovel in its laevo form; whereas In Chinese, 爱情 [love] can be embarrassing, for If I remove two strokes from the root-character & Add them to my feeling, 爱情would become受精 [Fertilization]; so, I’d avoid saying爱你 [love you] For if two strokes were taken away from the root- Character for 你, it would mean 受伤 [getting hurt] Author's note: This poem was inspired by Helena Qi Hong (祁红） Nuanced Nuisances Things I hate most about my life here: brushing teeth twice every day; happening to see my deformed face in the mirror; cleaning the toilet wall; listening to the endless self-promotional rhetoric before hearing what I expected but fail to get from youbube or tictok; trying to find a program worth my effort to kill time; giving up my whim to know what is happening in the world; deleting junk emails; garbaging the fliers & free newspapers; opening my door to a stranger trying to sell a new god or product; waiting more than one hundred minutes only to speak to a helpless recorded voice over the phone; cooking meat; doing laundry; doing dish washing at least three times a day; bearing the noise made by Ted, my elder son’s eight-year-old dog when he comes to visit me from Seattle; walking or, rather, being walked by, the dog during my stroll with it; making poetry and fiction submissions to various online or print magazines; seeing my wife’s long face; putting up with my younger son’s nasty attitude; seeing his messy room and shoes everywhere; in particular, having to take a dump when getting ready for a meal; standing long in the washroom before managing to pee out anything … alas, my life is really so hateful in this invisible & infinitesimal corner! Now, in this antlike moment, is my life really worth living, Gadfly?  Yuan Changming co-edits Poetry Pacific with Allen Yuan. Writing credits include 16 chapbooks, 12 Pushcart nominations for poetry and 3 for fiction, besides appearances in Best of the Best Canadian Poetry (2008-17), BestNewPoemsOnline and 2129 other publications across 51 countries. A poetry judge for Canada's 44th National Magazine Awards, Yuan began writing and publishing fiction in 2022; his debut novel Detaching, 'silver romance' The Tuner, and short story collection Flashbacks are all available on Amazon.
Today SHINE is honored to cast the spotlight on internationally published poet, Vikki C., with three gorgeous poems: Between Two, Wilderness Gallery, and Lifelines Through the Oldest War. Enjoy! Thank you, Vikki C., for sharing your gift of words with SHINE! Between Two As a last resort, the poets choose love or sorrow. Their faces at the afterparty, like any other face that is beautiful through glass. Pale, like swans on a still lake, moving towards each other. The water hardly flinching. Our whole lives swaddle the lake. The lake cries. We let it tire its lungs. We lie on the banks awash in violet, miming our way through. The lilies filling with rain, until they overflow. My mother emerging from bent willow to walk beside me—her steps steadily replacing yours. Tomorrow, I will take the train back to LA. The carriage windows swathed in milk-light. We’ll pull away from the platform, the train’s silver body segueing into a river. Two swans taking flight. She’ll wave the same way you waved in Grand Central. As if we could move closer. Make a third feeling from history. Drift, necks graceful, and not touch. We could stay up and drink all the wine — and not kiss. Love, sorrow. Why were we apart so long? What fabric is your nightfall? Under lamplight --is my hair the shade of friendship? Wilderness GalleryI want the flaws to be critiqued as the dazzling faultline that made us. You, mountainous, sunblazed, I, an endeavour to stay for one full revolution. Shade shifts my bearings, makes me thirst another aspect, a different slant of rain and tumult on my face, but only from afar. The artist holding up their brush to gauge the relativity of two points already changing in our minds. The lilacs shattering ice even though I’m no believer. Learning the body through blooming does not promise the body fragrance. This blue is not heaven, only its fictive underbelly — and I am consoled I have not died. How do we know it’s done? the art of poppy brightness in our palette, mixed just to prove what a heart holds? You paint my eyes as closed and night falls too soon. The fine line between the ocean and dreaming the ocean in a storm-drowned field. You give me a dusting of gold instead of a tongue, so I won’t argue over language or where the hands might meet. Most impressions fade, the animal’s prints snowed over, so we focus on the flicker in the skull’s cavities. You, wielding your silver instrument ready to pry the decay. In a square of sky too blue, it dazzles, no matter the angle — what I love. And fear. And love again. God, I’d lie so still. Lifelines Through The Oldest War I’d wager, I thought of you first-- as a fist blooming under hard frost, as a habit curled in a mother’s belly or a child, yellowed by joy in a quiet field. You leave and memory sings itself from smaller means—a seed, a fish released. Whatever slightness saves us without burning. We both love loneliness equally-- our problem is not touch, but peace. Like it could happen someday, when we get over the missives and watch the horses grow with the sun. When salt hardens the meadows, I’d trade this life for your fire in the hills --naming things for the first time. Seeing the deer vanish through the mulberry, shaking the snow clean with our troubles. In the other war, we’d lose our titles-- occupy bare skin, warm with survival. Isn’t this what we always do? Surrender, so the others don’t come searching with hard conclusions drawn from their sides? Not even a city worth ransacking, no address worth forgetting, no door left ajar to a small voice. Not even the quartz in the crack-- our last evening pouring out in victory.  Vikki C. is a British-born poet and fiction writer whose work has earned nominations for The Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net and the Orison Best Spiritual Literature. Her writing has appeared in over 80 publications across US, Canada, UK and Europe. Recent and forthcoming venues include The Ilanot Review, EcoTheo Review, Grain Magazine, Emerge Literary Journal, The Inflectionist Review, Harpy Hybrid Review, Barren Magazine, Cable Street, Psaltery & Lyre, Sweet Literary, Amethyst Review, New Verse Review, Ballast Journal, Feral, and Ice Floe Press. She is the author of two collections including Where Sands Run Finest (DarkWinter Press, 2024). Vikki was a winner of the Black Bough Poetry 2024 Poetry Collection Contest (UK) and was shortlisted in the DarkWinter 2nd Anniversary Contest, judged by Kim Fahner (Canada). Linktree: linktr.ee/vikki_c._author
Welcome back, poetry fans and thanks for stopping by! Today, SHINE international poetry series casts the spotlight on Indianapolis-based poet Rhonda Yates, and her social issues poem Signs of the Time. Thank you, Rhonda, for sharing your words with SHINE! Signs of the Time The signs of the time Elapsing The image of equality It’s importance shifting Between races Between sexes Between parents and children Between social classes Between political parties Between hearts And minds Intertwined Evolving and weaving The fight for power An ever-widening axis With opposing forces And enduring forces Dynamically misaligned  Rhonda Yates is a poet, artist, musician and self-published writer who resides in Indianapolis, Indiana. She cherishes her loving relationship with words and believes that the beauty of creation is one of our most valuable gifts.
As we head into the Easter weekend, SHINE has one more feature for this week...UK-based poet, Kev McCready. Kev brings us "Weirdo," "Raison D’etre," and "Unspoken (for Liv)." Thanks, Kev, for being a part of SHINE international poetry series! Weirdo If you’re grieving, hide. It’s not hard when you feel yourself defined by bones that are (but aren’t) in your own soul. Follow these instructions. As if you were in The French Resistence or Winston Smith on a Spring picnic. Take a train on a cold Monday. Those laden down with their luggage will not notice, it’s their baggage and students hooked on train WiFi (I didn’t know it existed) leave the station by the side door. Walk across town, go against traffic. Get a supermarket meal deal. You’ll find a faded cinema. Buy a ticket for a film that you were keen to see, no-one was. You’ll be one of fifteen weirdos. You’ll sail through the car and beer ads. The delicate strangeness of the film will soothe your aching, tired soul. For the three hours in the darkness nothing will matter except the silver screen and your own weirdness. Raison D’etre Why do you do this to yourself? Chasing trains through the chill, night air? Walking down the dark motorway? Spilling your guts to random strangers? Rhetorical questions linger. Search in the back of your attic mind find the answer, in sepia. School talent contests. That careers officer, who told me to be a lorry driver as ‘it’s what your dad does’. Corner table child, an absent brother writer. The lure of bright lights and loud laughter. Bitten by a mythical muse hidden under a nom de guerre. All this leads to you being quoted thirty-five quid for a taxi on a Saturday night. Unspoken (for Liv) I write on my phone or tablet’s notes the notebook is there for emergencies. You don’t have to learn poems, but love them. The days when you don’t write, are precious. You need (sometimes) to just let your mind and fingers rest. Just be you. Yes, you. On stage, look straight down the barrel of the microphone. Maintain eye contact. Intros should be shorter than poems. Stick to your four minutes. Don’t overrun. Get a decent meal before the gig. Please don’t get drunk before your own slot. (Feel free to get drunk afterwards) Shake hands with all the other poets. Go home, or to your nice, cheap hotel. Look up at the stars. Let them see you. Your gift is to speak the unspoken.  Kev The Poet is originally from Liverpool, but now resides in Devon. Kev’s work has featured on BBC Devon and weekly on Shaun Keavney’s show on Community Garden Radio. Kev gigs regularly across the South West.
Today SHINE is honored to introduce West Coast artist, Mary Coleman, with her debut poetry publish. Please enjoy Mary's evocative poems: Apologies, Limbo, and In Remembrance of My Mother. Thank you, Mary, for sharing your work with SHINE international poetry series, and here's wishing you well on your writing journey! ApologiesI’m sorry I never bought you a poppy to pin on your dick. I’m sorry my heart beats in rhythm with my breasts. I bind them with bandages until they turn blue, yet they bob all the same. I’m sorry we never jumped off a bridge together, 100 feet to the river’s shit-brown surface where we’d break through to the stars. I’m sorry I never screamed at you while you were trying to shave, straight razor poised at your neck as my voice shook the house. I’m sorry I never gave you my kidney, IV’s intertwined like rat’s tails, the surgeon wearing a tutu, dancing to Chopin. I’m sorry you never said sorry, we might have shared an ice cream together and forgot about the attic. Watched the sun swallowed by the horizon as the cancer devoured your bones. LimboStill in all places. The grass is brown. Perhaps a breeze. The houses you pass are stamps, each inked in the same lines, painted muddled tones, so that grass and house meld into one. And above, in the narrow trees, all the birds are screaming. In Remembrance of My Mother I was near when a seagull swooped down and took you to the moon. Maybe he left you there, bones piled in a crater, ash smeared across the Milky Way, where a dozen of your favorite boats set course for the stars.  Mary Coleman is a writer and painter living in Portland, Oregon. She obtained her Bachelor of Fine Arts and a Master of Art and Design in New Zealand where she lived for 11 years. Her poetry comes to her early in the morning when she’s barely awake and still half dreaming.
Instagram: @ehloaf Website: www.fivebluemarks.com Today SHINE welcomes UK-based poet, Alan Sharkey, whose rhymed poem "Furness" encourages us to appreciate and protect our communities and planet home. Thank you, Alan, for entrusting your words to SHINE international poetry series! Furness This place has history of lost souls and ghouls, Of Lords and noble men making up their own rules. Built out of industry, iron ore and steel, To build the world's railways And strengthen ships keel. It's natural beauty, lost on so many, A town with surroundings Immortalised a plenty. Harbour lights twinkle, In the dead of the night, A vision so beautiful, A fisherman's delight. Dawn fires the start, Of the wacky racers, All four seasons, Put us through our paces. Skylines of steam cover the far silhouette. Dusk delights us with an Ibizean sunset. And just off the edge, carved out by the gods, A natural phenomenon, Well what were the odds? Dog walkers and families, Enjoy at their leisure, Childhood fantasies, Faces of pleasure. Standing since the ice age, Neptune tries to reclaim, Fighting nature’s rages, To lose it would be a shame. So enjoy it, this diamond, A present from the past, There's sunshine on Walney island, Well how long will that last?  Alan Sharkey started writing poems last year when he took his autistic son (who enjoys writing short stories) to a creative writing group, not knowing it was poetry. His son decided poetry wasn't for him, but Alan carried on to the end which culminated in an open mic session at a local club.
Welcome back, poetry fans, today SHINE has the pleasure of sharing two poems by Boston-based poet, Jean Liew. You may notice a trend in socio-political poetry in these times, which is of course welcome here at SHINE. Worth noting, as we explored in my most recent workshop, "Poetry to Foster Civility," poetry has -- throughout millenia -- served as an outlet for expression and a catalyst for change. Regardless of one's political persuasions, by reading and engaging with the literary arts (and arts in general), we foster civil discussion and a sense of community. Thank you, Jean, for sharing your words with SHINE! Rome UntitledIn the last days of Rome Nowhere to go, and the loss of home The gouged bronze stolen from structures once true Drab muddiness mars the memory No more of the royal purple of some faraway Tyre The half sons of mid-born soldiers go hungry Number their ancestors in the great-fighting Gauls Who came to combat with Caesar once Once, on the other side of Alesia These people who later saw the births of poets Emperors later hailed from here Oh, little Augustus, with the wolf child's name How do you sit on your throne, so afraid? Where do you go in these last of days? When the bleakness descends and wipes all away? And We End HereRemember, we were in school in January and I said something about Jeopardy and Desdemona – that I knew the answer. Big claims for someone who’s eleven who, days before, had marked the coming of Y2K by picking up a phone at midnight, listening for the dial tone as a sign that the world was still okay – but also, just to say that she’d done it. Your phone is ringing on the other end, hollow and clear, but the voice that finally answers it isn’t yours. And then, we were behind the thin glass of an office impishly watching the director. Straw-ber-ry short-cake, she said, waving her baton in short, quick strokes. They played, straw-ber-ry short-cake. Cho-co-late, whined the lost viola in the back. The fruit blintzes made in anticipation ooze thick and wine-dark with accusations. Still later, we ran across a street screaming against traffic; pulled a coiled wire from a tattered notebook; ate your mother’s homemade birthday cake; laid on the rocky beach in the early morning; waited out a deluge in a bus until we could sit in stands in the rain, eating candy and PopTarts out of a white bucket over our sequined sashes and heavy hats. The coffee sits, amber colored in its carafe, deceptive in its brightness, a fly in the ointment. And we end here, when you never said for sure you’d come, going around it for months saying, Let’s make plans and I can’t wait. But I still study on weekends, waiting absentmindedly and letting things burn in the pan, tainting the air with a smell that stays while I inhale it, wishing all the while that you would tell me only that you remember what happened before.  Jean Liew
is a rheumatologist and clinical researcher at Boston University Chobanian & Avedisian School of Medicine and Boston Medical Center. Poetry lovers, It's easy to take for granted the many ways poetry infiltrates culture, but song lyrics are one of the more obvious ones. So, today SHINE casts the spotlight on my big sister, talented musician and songwriter, Stephanie Phillips! Stephanie's brand new song "I Am America" is now available on your streaming platforms. She also shares a poem entitled, "Strength." Thanks, Stephanie, for sharing your beautiful words with SHINE international poetry series! I Am AmericaI'm living in fear of my mom being taken And now I'm forbidden to go off to school Cause we are the ones who our country's forsaken Even though we've always played by the rules I'm living in chaos that always surrounds me And my little sister who can't understand I tell her she's safe if she just stays around me But all I can do is hold tight to her hand What will we do now? Where will we go? This is the only home that I know Why do they hate us? When will they see? I am America, and she is in me I am America, and she is in me I live with the fear that my family could break up And I would be forced to be man of the house I keep hoping all of the threats are just made up But Mama has warned me that she has no doubt So every day worry's my constant companion And I silently cry in my pillow at night My sister is frightened that she'll be abandoned But I just don't know how to make it all right What will we do now? Where will we go? This is the only home that I know Why do they hate us? When will they see? I am America, and she is in me I am America, and she is in me Lock all the doors, just stay inside And pray that this war of hatred subsides Look in my eyes as you throw the first stone And know my demise is also your own We live in the shadows with others just like us And hold on to faith that God will provide But we bear the blame from the ever self-righteous And we are the ones with freedom denied StrengthIt is not conferred on convoys of tanks filled with boot-clad militia men nor on threats of nuclear attack by authoritarian tyrants. Rather, it is seen in the frightened faces of mothers who put their bodies between those of their babies and the incoming shrapnel from enemy fire. It is displayed in the throngs of youth, willing to leave the comfort of their own freedom to protect the freedom of others. It is demonstrated in the hearts of countrymen who risk their lives for the sake of democracy, knowing wives and children may forever be lost to them. Strength is not a mantle to be thrown on like a crown and removed when the weight of it becomes unbearable. It wells up from the unseen depths of faith that can only be understood by those who don’t speak any other language than love.  Stephanie Phillips has been singing, playing guitar, and writing music from an early age. She has performed all over the United States, including many clubs in New York City such as the SpeakEasy and the Village Gate. A highlight of her career was opening for EmmyLou Harris in the 1990's. Stephanie describes her music as "progressive folk," taking her inspiration from giants such as Billy Joel, James Taylor, and Dan Fogelberg. Her music takes the listener on a sonic journey of all the emotional aspects of life - love, loss, hope, and despair. Stephanie is also not afraid to tackle social justice issues that arise in the nation and the world. Her latest CD, entitled “Certainly Love,” was released in August 2024. Stephanie's music can be found on digital platforms such as Apple Music and Spotify, as well as on her website: www.songwriterstephaniephillips.com.
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 |
 | 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. |
It's a busy national poetry month here at SHINE, but I'm back today to bring you more fantastic poetry from the international community...here is "The Ravens Trilogy" by UK poet, John Armstrong. Thank you, John, for sharing your gift of words with SHINE!
The Raven and the Fletcher
Raven’s calloused caws stoned a velvet, dawning sky.
The Fletcher rose—he’d dreamt:
Eyes drawn shut within an ebony-feathered cloud,
weeping a hail of embers, falling forevermore.
Fate split the Fletcher’s silent arrow tips--
A few flew true, hushing hearts.
Many fell spent—dead in the mud.
Raven’s ebony eye espied:
An affinity with midnight-feathered flights.
Raven, a follower of fading dusks--
of what falls, of what feeds the earth.
Disciples —the Arrow and the Raven.
Spring bows before Winter.
The Raven knows—he will follow too.
The Fletcher rose—he’d dreamt:
Eyes drawn shut within an ebony-feathered cloud,
weeping a hail of embers, falling forevermore.
Fate split the Fletcher’s silent arrow tips--
A few flew true, hushing hearts.
Many fell spent—dead in the mud.
Raven’s ebony eye espied:
An affinity with midnight-feathered flights.
Raven, a follower of fading dusks--
of what falls, of what feeds the earth.
Disciples —the Arrow and the Raven.
Spring bows before Winter.
The Raven knows—he will follow too.
The Raven and the Archer
The archer stands with gargoyle’s gaze.
Fingers abiding with a spider’s patience.
Ravens near—fair as fate. Sable wings spill shadows.
Midnight stains the hands of hope.
All breaths know the shape of future things.
A boy, with fear as rare as love.
Kisses the arrow’s bloodless lips.
Lets it slip--
A whisper, thin as a slice of November moon.
The raven spirals, black-angel winged.
An Amen in feathers.
It drags the wind from the dead man’s lips.
Scythes the dusk--
"Some must fall for others to rise."
Fingers abiding with a spider’s patience.
Ravens near—fair as fate. Sable wings spill shadows.
Midnight stains the hands of hope.
All breaths know the shape of future things.
A boy, with fear as rare as love.
Kisses the arrow’s bloodless lips.
Lets it slip--
A whisper, thin as a slice of November moon.
The raven spirals, black-angel winged.
An Amen in feathers.
It drags the wind from the dead man’s lips.
Scythes the dusk--
"Some must fall for others to rise."
The Raven and the Priest
She preyed where he prayed--
knee low amongst the blood tide of verdant grass.
Hades-hued wings scatter the vowels of his uttered psalms.
He hears the quiet speak of arrows spent,
silent confessors of fallen sons.
Her ebony beak plucks the silent strings
of the last war cry.
She knows what men do not:
That promises and arrows alike
lay as wasted tears
upon the story of forever and evermore.
The graveyard sighs and yawns as its turf is torn.
The waxing moon licks her crescent-thin tongue
over yew trees’ coffin-cold roots.
The kneeling clouds pick the blossomed flowers of risen saints.
Stiffened palms, pressed chill,
upon the rimed mouth of a frosted earth.
The faith he once clutched, now lies.
"Resurrection of damnation."
A trinity of blue-green eggs lay cradled
in her prayers of twigs and moss.
Faith’s dead leaf will fall--
but the tree buds. Forevermore.
knee low amongst the blood tide of verdant grass.
Hades-hued wings scatter the vowels of his uttered psalms.
He hears the quiet speak of arrows spent,
silent confessors of fallen sons.
Her ebony beak plucks the silent strings
of the last war cry.
She knows what men do not:
That promises and arrows alike
lay as wasted tears
upon the story of forever and evermore.
The graveyard sighs and yawns as its turf is torn.
The waxing moon licks her crescent-thin tongue
over yew trees’ coffin-cold roots.
The kneeling clouds pick the blossomed flowers of risen saints.
Stiffened palms, pressed chill,
upon the rimed mouth of a frosted earth.
The faith he once clutched, now lies.
"Resurrection of damnation."
A trinity of blue-green eggs lay cradled
in her prayers of twigs and moss.
Faith’s dead leaf will fall--
but the tree buds. Forevermore.
John Armstrong lives in England. But his heart resides in many places – on a boat, in the South of France, Ireland, and always within what he would call, ‘the silent clouds of nothingness’. His work often invokes dreamlike imagery, themes of memory, loss, and transformation. Armstrong’s earliest work was poetry written at 15 years old for The Young Socialist Newspaper. His most recent title and first book is The Seduction of an English Twat Magnet. A lover of dystopian science fiction (favourite book being The Time Machine), The Mary Maker, The Sorrows, and The Half-Moon Choices is Armstrong’s first short story. His hobbies include: growing Cosmos flowers and seeing them survive past the first frosts, exploring Holland on an old bicycle, photography, and astronomy. And of course reading, a lot of Dickens, because why not? On Instagram @johnarmstrongwrites
SHINE poetry fans, today we're putting the spotlight on an active member of the online poetry community, Sreelekha Chatterjee. Sreelekha brings us her poems, "A Rendezvous With Self," "Bring Back the Dark Sky," and "Undivided." Thank you, Sreelekha, for sharing your words with SHINE!
A Rendezvous With Self
I bathe in life’s sleeping draught;
while the city is still, an owl cries.
Like the old things, I hold on to the night,
amid the blurred border of truth and lies.
I arrive at the land of fairy tales,
my cloven thoughts remain insane.
In a dream, the hirsute bee hums,
amorous arms around the lassie bloom--
taut, yet tremulous, holding his will tight,
not giving up till he is satisfied.
All my love will live in vain
if my feral being is left untamed.
All through the night so I shall toil
till the morning arrives in delight.
while the city is still, an owl cries.
Like the old things, I hold on to the night,
amid the blurred border of truth and lies.
I arrive at the land of fairy tales,
my cloven thoughts remain insane.
In a dream, the hirsute bee hums,
amorous arms around the lassie bloom--
taut, yet tremulous, holding his will tight,
not giving up till he is satisfied.
All my love will live in vain
if my feral being is left untamed.
All through the night so I shall toil
till the morning arrives in delight.
Bring Back the Dark Sky
An omnipresent light screen
across the night sky.
Its origin on the ground below--
unshielded, escaping up into the vault.
I see the red dragon prancing
in the houses, shops, streets, cars alight.
Orange, yellow, green, and red lights
on sociable nights gleam.
Blinded, curtaining the view beyond
where our eyes once reached
to wonders far yet nearest it seemed.
The brightest stars now darkened,
lost in the increasing wash of unnatural light,
urban lives putting up gaudy shows,
while nights grow pale, harboring perilous fairs.
The waning moon shies away,
hiding its luminescent face somewhere.
A bird squirms restlessly in its nest,
a crow is heard cawing,
flowers wakeful, unfurl;
trespassed glow haunts nocturnal wanderers,
circadian rhythms in jeopardy;
their homes and breeding grounds,
relying on the sky compass,
perhaps never to be found.
Without the comfort of the stars,
the lullaby that I fondly associate with,
I toss and turn in bed till sleep--
unusually late--draws me in its arms,
only to be troubled by nightmare's ensemble.
across the night sky.
Its origin on the ground below--
unshielded, escaping up into the vault.
I see the red dragon prancing
in the houses, shops, streets, cars alight.
Orange, yellow, green, and red lights
on sociable nights gleam.
Blinded, curtaining the view beyond
where our eyes once reached
to wonders far yet nearest it seemed.
The brightest stars now darkened,
lost in the increasing wash of unnatural light,
urban lives putting up gaudy shows,
while nights grow pale, harboring perilous fairs.
The waning moon shies away,
hiding its luminescent face somewhere.
A bird squirms restlessly in its nest,
a crow is heard cawing,
flowers wakeful, unfurl;
trespassed glow haunts nocturnal wanderers,
circadian rhythms in jeopardy;
their homes and breeding grounds,
relying on the sky compass,
perhaps never to be found.
Without the comfort of the stars,
the lullaby that I fondly associate with,
I toss and turn in bed till sleep--
unusually late--draws me in its arms,
only to be troubled by nightmare's ensemble.
Undivided
Lovers divide in sleep and death.
Our ignorance divides us from wisdom.
Let anathema be loaded on bigotry.
To divide and rule is the policy of the devil.
May the beam of light pierce the dark faith that splits.
For there is only one good in favor
of mankind and one god we seek.
The multiple-headed rebellions of shadows
be divided when knowledge enlightens
and fall like they never existed.
Let there be a heaven beneath the clouds
like the heaven above the sky.
Not divided for want of love and care
for an undivided will, helps hearts to meet.
Our ignorance divides us from wisdom.
Let anathema be loaded on bigotry.
To divide and rule is the policy of the devil.
May the beam of light pierce the dark faith that splits.
For there is only one good in favor
of mankind and one god we seek.
The multiple-headed rebellions of shadows
be divided when knowledge enlightens
and fall like they never existed.
Let there be a heaven beneath the clouds
like the heaven above the sky.
Not divided for want of love and care
for an undivided will, helps hearts to meet.
Sreelekha Chatterjee is a poet from New Delhi, India. Her poems have appeared in Setu, Verse-Virtual, Porch Literary Magazine, Orenaug Mountain Poetry Journal, Fevers of the Mind, The Wise Owl, Creative Flight, Everscribe, and in the anthologies--Light & Dark (Bitterleaf Books, UK), Whose Spirits Touch (Orenaug Mountain Publishing, USA), and Christmas-Winter Anthology Volume 4 (Black Bough Poetry, Wales, UK). Find her on Facebook facebook.comsreelekha.chatterjee.1, X (formerly Twitter) @sreelekha001, and Instagram @sreelekha2023
Today SHINE welcomes back poet Mohsen Hosseinkhani, whose book, Trotting In a Gloomy Plain (Alien Buddha Press, 2024), I had the privilege of refining for American English. In this post, Mohsen shares a moving poem entitled "War Means." Thank you, Mohsen, for your gift of words!
War Means
The flower of a women's skirt being scythed by a gun
The scream of a dress taken off by force
War means
A handful of hair leaving in a soldier’s fist
War means a mother whose child is smelling of the enemy
In war
Men are killed once
Women a thousand times
The scream of a dress taken off by force
War means
A handful of hair leaving in a soldier’s fist
War means a mother whose child is smelling of the enemy
In war
Men are killed once
Women a thousand times
Welcome back, poetry lovers! Today, American poet Teresa Burleson has shared two religious poems with SHINE online series. Regardless of your faith perspective, these pieces are a good reminder of the gift that poetry offers us all -- a creative place for introspection and outward expression. And, I think you'll find "Unfading" particularly appropriate for Spring! Thank you, Teresa, for sharing your words.
Unfading
Deep within the seed
A force knows just when
To germinate.
Pushing past anything
In its way,
The green shoot breaks through
To greet the sky.
Putting forth root, stem and leaf,
The plant thrives,
Then withers and dies.
Only one Seed never dies.
And He is in me.
He is the Seed
Imperishable.
I shall fear no drought.
A force knows just when
To germinate.
Pushing past anything
In its way,
The green shoot breaks through
To greet the sky.
Putting forth root, stem and leaf,
The plant thrives,
Then withers and dies.
Only one Seed never dies.
And He is in me.
He is the Seed
Imperishable.
I shall fear no drought.
Lost and Found
Though the hurt is
Unfathomable,
Let them go.
Let the loved one go
Back to the One
From whom they came.
Let it go.
Let the balloon go.
Let it sail free
And dance upon the wind.
What we have poured out,
What we have shared
Is never, ever lost,
But safely kept
For our homecoming.
After we have slept
A while,
We shall wake to find
Heaven has not lost
One single balloon.
Unfathomable,
Let them go.
Let the loved one go
Back to the One
From whom they came.
Let it go.
Let the balloon go.
Let it sail free
And dance upon the wind.
What we have poured out,
What we have shared
Is never, ever lost,
But safely kept
For our homecoming.
After we have slept
A while,
We shall wake to find
Heaven has not lost
One single balloon.
Teresa Burleson has been free-lancing since she was 17 and has had poems published in over 45 magazines. Her devotional book, REDEFINED: Who You Are In Christ a 31-day devotional for women, was the 2024 recipient of the CLA Henri Award in the devotional category. Her first book, The Pilgrim's Lyre, was published in 2003, and her chapbook, Rose Without Thorns, came out in 2013.
SHINE - International Poetry Series
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
In poetry,
Samantha Terrell, EIC
SYLVIA PLATH
Stars Over the Dordogne
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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