SAMANTHA TERRELL - POET / EIC, SHINE Poetry Series
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March 4~ SHILPA CHAKRABARTI

3/4/2025

 
This week, SHINE welcomes emerging poet, Shilpa Chakrabarti, who brings us her poem, "The Night Beckons Me." Thank you, Shilpa, for sharing your words, and best wishes on your continued poetic journey!

The Night Beckons Me

Thoughts, brimming with the memories of bygones
Creep silently to raise an emotional turmoil -
The solitude of the night, then, beckons me
To vent out my lonesomeness, wrapping me in its dark foil.

Into a tormented mood and baffled mind
This loneliness would have left me;
But, the softness of nocturnal zephyr dries my tears,
And the sky magnanimously shares its vastness with me.

How will I return night’s selfless favours?
They rekindle in me, a zeal to walk towards light.
Never expected hope to reach me
Amidst the gloomy darkness of the night!!

Thoughts soaked in depressing bygones
Intend to drag me into emotional turmoil, I see.
The dark night beckons me, to absorb my pain;
With positive vibes, towards bright light, it pushes me.
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Dr. Shilpa Chakrabarti was a medical writer for a couple of years before she took to freelance content creation. She has worked for several publication houses, in preparing book chapters, questionnaires, and study materials. She has written blogs and articles on various topics related to health and education. Of late, writing poems has become her leisure pleasure. This is just the beginning of her spiritual journey, and she hopes to walk more in search of solace through poetry.


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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 my honor to provide a home for their words through SHINE Poetry Series.
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    NOW IN PRINT!

    Stars Over the Dordogne
    BY SYLVIA PLATH
    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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  • ABOUT
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