SAMANTHA TERRELL - POET / EIC, SHINE Poetry Series
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Feb.25~ NOAH BERLATSKY

2/25/2026

 
This week, SHINE welcomes back Chicago-based writer Noah Berlatsky. Please enjoy two new poems:  Poem Beginning With a Line By Vasko Popa, and Ain't No Mountain High Enough. Thank you, Noah, for sharing your work with the SHINE international poetry community! 

Poem Beginning With a Line By Vasko Popa

One is the nail, another is pliers.
One is the ocean, another is a vast web of plastic.
One is the pliers, another is rust.
One hammers and hammers on the roof of a bat’s head.

The bat is shrieking until all the rust flakes off.
And at last there is no ocean, only the plastic
breathing and breathing in its smooth and pulsing tides.
The shark is caught in it. The shark with teeth like nails
that are not really like nails, but built out of
someone else’s petroleum, reflecting
someone else’s colors. Pull them out of the wood.
Steal them for yourself.

Ain't No Mountain High Enough
​(for Mobley)

 Tammi Terrell dated James Brown
who beat her bloody
when she left one of his sets early.

She escaped him at last, and dated David Ruffin
of the Temptations, who beat her also.
He hit her in the head with his motorcycle helmet.

She escaped him at last and sang with Marvin Gaye.
Marvin’s father beat him relentlessly.
Marvin described Marvin Gay, Sr. as
“an all-cruel, changeable, cruel and all-powerful king.”

Marvin sang to Tammi,
“don’t worry baby.”
Tammi sang to Marvin, “Just call my name,
you don’t have to worry.”

Tammi got brain cancer and died at 24.
Marvin’s father shot him. He died at 44.

Throughout their lives,
they were both often treated
as if they had no rights
that white people were bound to respect.

But when they sang “don’t worry”,
they sounded like they meant it.
Marvin’s voice floated up, higher than a mountain.
Tammi’s rumbled low, deeper than a valley.

They said they would save each other.
They said they would save you.
Motown makes it feel
like there’s no sorrow in the world.
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Noah Berlatsky (he/him) is a freelance writer in Chicago. You can find info on his poetry collections and chapbooks, as well as his writing on politics and culture, at his newsletter: www.everythingishorrible.net


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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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