SAMANTHA TERRELL - POET / EIC, SHINE Poetry Series
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August 1~ YUCHENG TAO

8/1/2025

 
Congratulations to SHINE contributor Yucheng Tao, whose book April No Longer Comes will be available from Alien Buddha Press this month. Please enjoy a sample of his work today on SHINE! Thank you, Yucheng, for sharing your news with the SHINE poetry community.

Song of Sea

A solemn sea
beneath the night-lit veil,
a shoal of fish

— hidden, glimmering --
the hush untouched

by waves,
only the fish,
and your eyes,
meeting.


Dream in the Sea

In my dream,
the jellyfish wears a gown of light,
swaying upon my knees.
I am in the boat,
headed for the distant mountains,
steadier than the sea.

Invaders in Sleep

Out of the cradle I started my life,
Curled small in the realm of sleep,
Far from Earth, nearer to my flesh,
The others from the void arrive in my dream --
Armed, skull-faced, close as breath.

When they come, my grave splits open,
And the God of Slumber welcomes me.
There are no nightmares in death,
There are no sweet dreams in the
cradle.

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Yucheng Tao is a Chinese poet based in Los Angeles, currently pursuing a B.A. in Songwriting at the Musicians Institute. His work has appeared in over 30 journals internationally, including Wild Court (King’s College London), NonBinary Review, Apocalypse Confidential, The Arcanist, Red Ogre Review, Cathexis Northwest Press, SHINE: International Poetry Series, In Parentheses, and more. He was a semifinalist for the Winds of Asia Award. His debut chapbook, titled April No Longer Comes, will be published by Alien Buddha Press in August 2025.
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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 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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