SAMANTHA TERRELL - POET / EIC, SHINE Poetry Series
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Feb. 3~ COURTNEY EDWARDS

2/3/2026

 
Today I'm pleased to shine the spotlight on Portland-based writer/educator, Courtney Edwards, who brings us "To Enlightenment" and "Seabraids" -- two poems full of warmth and imagery. Thank you, Courtney, for sharing your gift for words with SHINE international poetry series.

To Enlightenment
​(Thailand)

This time, I can show you the way
past the garish, gold temples, blinding
the slums and their stray dogs, their stray
plastic buddha figurines
blessing dirt roads,
past the glittering-gold chedis,
spiraling into heaven,
past the yellow-gold elephants, entombed
in gold wat walls,
past the glaring, gold Buddha statues
sitting beneath heavy, jeweled crowns,

past monks in orange-gold robes,
untouched by the world, by divine affection
leading hungry tourists in Bud-dho meditation
chanting,
bud-dho, bud-dho.

To the bamboo village where women,
seated like lotus flowers,
are nursing their babies,
sweet milk beading on tiny orchid lips,
Jasmine-petal fingertips,
saffron hearts beating together,
bright suns breathing together,
bud-dho, bud-dho.

To the wood stove where lemongrass steam
spirals over mothers, grandmothers,
their hands turn like tired wheels,
chopping papaya and red Tilapia,
bending over hot woks in
mindful dedication, divine meditation.
Palm oil sputters,
bud-dho, bud-dho.

To the shimmering rice fields where women,
wading in sunset-gilded waters,
bow to the earth under gold-moon hats.
Their laughter like lanterns--
filling the night with precious light,
with every noble truth.

Seabraids
(for Evelynn)

“When I’m the mom and you’re the baby…” you wonder,
weaving time like the fine blonde hair of our matching braids,

turning the years over, and under with your magic toddler hands,
cupping my face in your plush palms, imagining roles reversed.

“Mommy, when you cry, I will sing you songs about whales,”
you say, gently brushing strands from my eyes like some celestial veil

that once divided our souls into mother and daughter. When we release
our braids, we are shimmering mermaids, swimming with Baby Belugas,

Narwhal Unicorns, and Rainbow Fish. We explore princess-pink reefs,
make baby beds from glittery seagrass. You anoint every shell,

every opalescent fish scale, declaring them “beautiful, beautiful, beautiful!”
How I love to be in your arms, in your world. You bead bracelets, each piece,

a present. You tell me stories where endings are ever-after.
You hold me tighter than my mother ever could.

Perhaps, one day, you will hold me, when you are grown, and I am overflowing
with opalescent memories. When my time unravels down to my last thread,

my silver braid released, a shimmering mermaid. Back to the sea,
where a veil lifts, and we are always together.
Picture
Courtney Edwards is an English teacher and photographer from Portland, OR. Her work has been published by Pile Press, The New Zealand Poetry Society, Sonora Review, Suspended Magazine, and Wild Roof Journal. Courtney enjoys traveling, exploring the PNW with her husband and three children, playing the piano, and helping to bring sea otters back to Oregon through the Elakha Alliance. You can connect with her on Instagram at @pnw.courtney


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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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