SAMANTHA TERRELL - POET / EIC, SHINE Poetry Series
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August 21~ KEV THE POET

8/21/2026

 
Another week is wrapping up here at the SHINE poetry series desk! Today, SHINE is pleased to welcome back British writer, Kev the Poet with two new poems that speak to recent social events in America. Thank you, Kev, for sharing these poignant pieces. Have a pleasant weekend, all~

Shoes

Trump reportedly gifts cabinet members and White House visitors with Florsheim shoes - The Guardian

He buys them shoes to
gain their loyalty.  
Guessing their size 
(always incorrect)
they wear these Oxfords 
hand-stitched, £100 a pair. 
Showing fealty
to a senile king. 
Heels swimming in them 
like kids on their first day 
at infant school. 
Leaving them wriggle room
to say, when justice comes 
‘a big boy did it’. 
The boxes pile up high 
in The Oval Office.  
Like coffins from an 
Iranian girls school. ​

​The Death Of A Poet
(for Renee Nicole Good)

When you kill a poet, it is 
not the end. Their blood becomes ink
seeps into cold earth, whispers resistance.
They become merely animistic
beyond paper, or peppered air. 
Poets, poems are both extremophile.  
Whether ranted, dictated to daughters 
dismissed, devalued or destroyed
they outlast any tyrant, move faster 
than any agent or sly bullet.  
Whilst we will forget the moustaches,
salutes, the evasions, the baseball caps, 
the mouth, like a lazy basking shark 
a poem, once written, just runs wild. 
Dictators graves grow wild with weeds
whilst the grave of a small poet 
is covered in fresh flowers daily.  
Their legend grows longer in death.  ​
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Kev The Poet was born in Liverpool and began writing poetry in the early 90’s, after reading The Mersey Poets and a bout of unrequited love. He began again in 2022, as a response to the incipient rise of fascism. Kev's work has been called poems of ‘angst, disdain, and scorn’ and has been performed across the country. He has also appeared on BBC Radio 2, BBC Devon/Cornwall, and he contributes a weekly poem to Shaun Keavney’s show on Community Garden Radio. Kev has been published twice in the US poetry magazine SHINE Quarterly, and Urban Scrawl (which is devoted to poetry, stories, art and photography about cities).


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    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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