SAMANTHA TERRELL - POET / EIC, SHINE Poetry Series
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August 19~ MELANIE LAM

8/19/2025

 
Today SHINE welcomes back London-based writer Melanie Lam with her poem "The In-Between." Thank you, Melanie, for being a part of the SHINE international poetry community!

The In-Between

Winter evening
neon light flickering
concrete ceiling overlaying
pipes and metal rods
a steel screwdriver and bolts
thrown away on the floor
perhaps forgotten
during lunch hour
by the plumber worker

against the door to the lift
laid a blue plastic bag
full of household shopping bags
an elastic band on the floor lost
squashed page of a grocery list
scattered in the corner amidst
crumbles of crisps
chocolates and smarties

                                                                                                               a place of transition
                                                                                                     for modes of transportation
                                                                                              a space not to remain in infinite
                                                                                        passing less than five to ten minutes

president of a committee
governing the property company
ever setting foot on the premises
is another question with no answers

unsightly tech equipment
plumbing pipes lights
blaring to the eyes
from a ventilation system
electric fans rumbling noise
pertinent in the background
evening the silence of the echo
stark and cold resonates across the basement
an atmospheric feeling reigning as a constant

seeing lights flicker from the bulb that was ending its days
smelling petrol, diesel, food oil from the chips burgers honey glaze
tasting the scent of the curry meal of the last passenger
touching the icy steel metal frame of the people carrier


I hear water running through the drain pipes
the door to the gas unit storage banging
someone surely forgot to use their keys
blue, grey and white prominent colours
endless range of vehicles in the park perched
each one barely touching the other
leaving hardly any room for the driver
                                                                                                               a place of transition
                                                                                                       designed for a destination
                                                                                                             a place of in-between
                                                                                                             never to end or begin

Winter morning
neon light dimming
concrete floor overlaying
from yesterday’s dust settling
shiny gold coin beside the door
thrown away on the floor
one of the rarest and valuable a regal
1933 Saint-Gaudens Double Eagle
Picture
Melanie Lam is a London-based creative, from Mauritius of Chinese heritage. She is a qualified accountant, an actor, a playwright, and a poet. Sharing a poem publicly for the first time with Creating Apart in 2021, motivated her to further develop her craft. Subsequently, she contributed to the limited edition anthology of the Chinese Write Now 2022 festival. Her writing delves into themes such as feminism, migration and displacement, and loss and hope. Her instagram account is MelanieLam_UK.


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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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