SAMANTHA TERRELL - POET / EIC, SHINE Poetry Series
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***2023 PUSHCART PRIZE NOMINEES & HONORABLE MENTIONS***

10/26/2023

 
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FRANCESCA LEADER

10/24/2023

 
This week's feature is Pushcart-nominated poet, Francesca Leader, whose powerful words have been widely published. Today, please enjoy "The White Dream" (with first publish credits to Frost Meadow Review) and "Treat My Body Like an International House of Pancakes" (with first publish credits to Beatnik Cowboy). Thank you, Francesca, for sharing your work!

The White Dream

a child in her sleep,

(the path ragged with ice)

crashing in snow,

chasing bird tracks

and gasping up the tree-frost haze.

then you are there, parting a screen of lacquer-red branches,

bare-faced in a smiling cloud of hot breath,

a halo of winter air;

our skates skittering, jet-streaming

on the minarets of bubbles in the pond eye,

black under-foot sky,

the earth of earthless beings;

we are so light, like ghosts, all soul

and no human weight;

and we laugh at our mutant mitten hands flopping

like paws on the bank when we tumble.

at night, in cabin light, the frozen dark bruises

will show in our skin, like ponds under ice.

but already, I sense the thaw of waking . . .

I will, with the dream’s power,

the next drift to cover my eyes,

to keep the white spell from lifting.

Treat My Body Like an International House of Pancakes

Pretend the pages of my menu are sticky
and you don’t care why,
don’t give one single fuck
about hygiene
because you know what you came for,
and you’re
starving.

Make me feel as good
as on those all-night college nights
imbibing bottomless coffees
and secondhand smoke that smelled
like love,
one plate of hashbrowns split
five ways.

Flip me.
Bite me.
Soak me in syrup, baby--

You, of all people,
should know
what I like.

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Francesca Leader is a self-taught, Pushcart-nominated writer originally from Western Montana. Her poetry, fiction, and creative non-fiction have appeared in, or are forthcoming from Wigleaf, HAD, Barren, Milk Candy Review, Fictive Dream, JMWW, Mom Egg Review, Literary Mama, Stanchion, Door Is a Jar, Nixe's Mate, and elsewhere. Learn more at inabucketthemoon.wordpress.com.



CHARLES K. CARTER

10/12/2023

 
Welcome back poetry lovers! Another fellow poet worth celebrating is Charles K. Carter, whose newest collection, If the World Were a Quilt , was recently released by Kelsay Books. Please enjoy two poems from the book, "Secrets" and "Venom." Thank you, Charles, for sharing your work!

Secrets

About two blocks down the street from our house,
headed towards the parks by the lake,
I got used to arguing with him and
always having to distract our yippy Shih tzu
from the beautiful old golden retriever
sitting on her porch.
She had earned her relaxation.
She had the secrets of old age.
She had the secrets of life.
She had the secrets of love.


One day she was gone.
A quiet grief overwhelmed me.
I wanted to speak to her,
to know her wisdom.
I wanted her to take my paw and tell me my fortune:
would he ever love me in the way I loved him?

Venom

It warms like the Florida sun soaking into my skin,
swimming faster and faster to feed toxins to all the cells inside.

It burns like the Minnesota cold
creeping up through my veiny tributaries,
climbing peaks and valleys to reach my sacred heart summit.

It calms like my Iowa youth flashing before my eyes –
first kisses, swing sets, Mamma’s humming in the kitchen.

Don’t tell Mamma that I was trying to die again.
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Charles K. Carter is a queer poet from Iowa who currently lives in Oregon. They share a home with their artist husband and their spoiled pets, and enjoy film, yoga, and live music. (Melissa Etheridge is their ultimate obsession.) Carter, who holds an MFA in writing from Lindenwood University, is the author of If the World Were a Quilt (Kelsay Books) and Read My Lips (David Robert Books), as well as several chapbooks. Charles is on Instagram @ckcpoetry .

    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 my honor to provide a home for their words through SHINE Poetry Series.
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    NOW IN PRINT!

    Stars Over the Dordogne
    BY SYLVIA PLATH
    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
  • PUBLICATIONS
  • SHINE Poetry Series
    • SUBMISSIONS
  • PROFESSIONAL AFFILIATIONS
    • CONNECT
  • SHOP
  • POETIC TRINITAS