SAMANTHA TERRELL - POET / EIC, SHINE Poetry Series
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ELIZABETH  K. BATES

3/8/2023

 
In recent years, connecting with fellow poets on social media has brought a whole new aspect to my writing career. It is a great joy to be able to share some of their work here, and I am honored to do so. This week's featured poet hails from Washington state, where she is a teacher, mom, and Betty White enthusiast! Thank you, Elizabeth for sharing your lovely poetry with us.

Rose Gold
(Previously published by The Daily Drunk, and STAY GOLDEN zine.)

And time and time again
the adage we were told:
gold will always fade.

I live in other adages,
as they’d say them in St. Olaf.
Things about not blowing my vertubenflugen.

And some might be able to
calculate the hours
until gold’s sparkle ceases.

I don’t—and I won’t—because Nylund math
starts and ends with asking permission
to ask a dumb question.

And maybe eternal gold
defies all sense
of logic.

I never counted
common sense
as a crowning glory--
and to the benefit of us all
neither does Rose
who knows it’s just as well
that everyone blows that right
out their tubenburbles.

Gold in all its variations
may vanish,
but true gold--Rose gold--
is here to stay.

Calls
(Previously published in Masque & Spectacle, Issue 25.)

Eggs stare back at me, distinct blue, like piercing eyes through
the forest undergrowth. The nest begs for help. To get back

where it belongs. To get back to what it is becoming. Out by the
cattails, a red-winged blackbird reminds me,

“Plant your garden seed.” There is still so much to do to ensure
proper nurturing. I’m hungry for what’s to come. It’s almost lunch

when the goldfinch passes over. “Po-ta-to-chip.” Naturally,
the reminders of all the days still require threaten to overwhelm as dusk,
like a beacon to home, calls for my attention.

But then, the barred owl begs the question:
“Who cooks for you? Who cooks for you-all?”

Someone takes care of me always.

The helpless blue has my full attention. With the fallen nest secured,
I walk home. The door opens where I’m greeted
by blue eyes.

Picture
Elizabeth Bates is a Best of the Net and Pushcart-nominated writer from Washington state. She is the author of MOSAICS & MIRAGES (Fahmidan, 2022) and ROSE GOLD: BETTY WHITE POEMS. “Rose Gold” is the titular poem of Bates’ chapbook released on her Substack, THE LETTER “B,” in January 2023. “Calls” is a poem from Bates’ currently unpublished chapbook. When Bates is not writing, she is making memories with her family; teaching high school English; or tweeting about Betty White. Twitter: @ElizabethKBates Website: elizabethkbates.com



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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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