SAMANTHA TERRELL - POET / EIC, SHINE Poetry Series
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August 5~ JAMES AITCHISON

8/5/2026

 
SHINE poetry fans, today it's a thrill to put the spotlight on work by Australian writer, James Aitchison. Please enjoy his thought-provoking poems:  dada graffiti, Epiphany, and What is life in dada? Thank you, James, for being a part of SHINE!

dada graffiti

loyal but insincere redemption
written descriptors in the mouth
piquant, taste to reach
   heights upon which we dwell
sycophant’s words I forgive you
earth channels through Tzara’s country rivers
sorrow a baseless emotion
our primary means of communication

Epiphany

the beast that should be free
absolutely a cinquain Roman arch
in fearful mellowness
feet born again for victory parades
through terror affordable and shady
the sunlight on which we stand
the sonnet cannot be pricked
Shakespeare’s boketto elephant


EDITOR’S NOTE: The Japanese philosophy of ‘Boketto’ is a practice rooted in the art of non-doing and peaceful reflection

What is life in dada?

crawling up golden drains of stagnant ideas
frothy bubbly importance floating on political incompetence
learning nothing because there is nothing to learn
archaic men in cosseted stupidity croak formulaic wisdom, no thanks
confused trajectories of mortgaged wilderness
aliens invading the second drawer in my cupboard
myths of hurdy gurdies swallowing angels
i am wearing only one shoe
you’ve just won a trip to Somalia
Amyl is the capital of Nitrate
cakes have urinary tract infections
all parallel lines eventually meet
hum comes before ho
life is irrelevant so is Ikea
virgins have joined the air force
I want to be Gregory Peck
the idiot in charge is the mouth of the world
stupidity conquers all
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​James Aitchison is an Australian author and poet whose work has appeared in the Australian Poetry Anthology, Aesthetica, Quadrant, Shine Poetry Series, Literary Yard, Adelaide Literary Magazine, and many others.  As James Lee, his children's horror stories became the Netflix series Mr Midnight: Beware the Monsters.


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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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