SAMANTHA TERRELL - POET / EIC, SHINE Poetry Series
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Oct. 21~ BOOK FEATURE: Merril D. Smith

10/21/2025

 
In continuing SHINE's mini book series for the month of October, I'm pleased to feature Held Inside the Folds of Time by Merril D. Smith,  which launched this week from JC STUDIO Press. I was honored to write the Foreword for this lovely collection (read it below). In addition to the evocative poetry in the book, Merril's gorgeous photography is a delightful feast for the eyes.  To purchase your copy, simply click on the book cover art, or go to your country's Amazon marketplace. Congratulations, Merril!
Held Inside the Folds of Time by Merril D. Smith, has so much to offer – unfolding, as it were, before the reader with layers of intimacy and grace.

As one might suspect from the title, she addresses memories – both personal, and cultural. In “Sister Songs” and “Winter Birches” the reader is given a glimpse into the rich family life that Merril values. Throughout the book, she speaks to topics of mothering, daughtering, and sistering. And, in poems like “The Toll of the Toil,” and “At the Corner of First and Always,” we glimpse a bit of Americana – both its sadness and its hope.

But there is a metaphysical aspect to Merril’s work as well. I particularly enjoyed “Suspended, Surrounded” and “The Power of Gravity and Light.” And, Merril’s lyrical style does not disappoint: Birds sing the harmonies of stars, trees and seas bear primeval secrets, tremulous whispers flow underground and across continents, waves of knowledge break on fallow shores, snippets coast on spindrift (from “How I Learned”).

If I have one criticism, it’s that this gorgeous collection ended too soon, as I would happily spend many ‘folds of time’ reading Merril’s rich and evocative words!

-SAMANTHA TERRELL, EIC
SHINE international poetry series

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Merril D. Smith writes from southern New Jersey. Her work has been published widely in poetry journals and anthologies. Her collection River Ghosts (Nightingale & Sparrow Press) was Black Bough Poetry’s December 2022 Book of the Month. Held Inside the Folds of Time (JC STUDIO Press), is available now.


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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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