SAMANTHA TERRELL - POET / EIC, SHINE Poetry Series
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Jan. 22~ BOOK FEATURE: Lawrence Moore

1/22/2026

 
Today marks the last installment of this month's mini book series where we're shining the spotlight on former SHINE contributor, Lawrence Moore, whose new collection This Joyful Interlude was released in November by JC STUDIO Press (Glasgow). You can read my review below, and purchase a copy by clicking on the beautiful cover art image (by illustrator/publisher, Jane Cornwell). Congratulations, Lawrence, on this 'joyful' collection!
Lawrence Moore's new book, This Joyful Interlude, is a delightful read, with plenty of whimsy (from poems such as, "Wendy and Crew" or "Puss in Boots"). But Moore has a knack for evading the overly sentimental with writing that is both heart-warming and thought-provoking, and which celebrates individuality as well as connected-ness. I especially enjoyed lines like, "When missing from the arias, you'll find me in the overtones" (from "Those Handsome Lights") and "If the moment sends us rain, we may be saturated together" (from "Rituals"). Like his previous books, This Joyful Interlude showcases Moore's skills with imagery and rhyme, and truly offers something for everyone. 

-Samantha Terrell, EIC
SHINE international poetry series

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Lawrence Moore has lived in the coastal city of Portsmouth, England his whole life and shares a house overlooking Kingston Cemetery with his husband Matthew and several mostly well behaved cats. His poems have appeared in publications including Sarasvati, Pink Plastic House, The Daily Drunk Mag, Green Ink Poetry, Dreich, and The Madrigal. His first full-length poetry collection, The Breadcrumb Trail, was published by Jane's Studio Press in March 2024. 


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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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