SAMANTHA TERRELL - POET / EIC, SHINE Poetry Series
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Oct. 22~ RICHARD LeDUE

10/22/2025

 
Hello again, poetry lovers! Today SHINE welcomes back Richard LeDue with three new poems:  Bach Playing in the Background, Stealing Some Immortality, and my favorite, Words Like These. Thank you, Richard, for once again sharing your work with the SHINE international poetry community!

Bach Playing in the Background

A selfie staring back at me,
like a ghost I don’t believe in,
betrays the Bach playing in the background.

His keyboard concertos reek of fingertips
from a god or a godless universe
inspiring someone to create the divine,

while I look into my own eyes
and accept the light between dead stars
gives life to poems like this. 

Stealing Some Immortality

An ancient Greek poet
writing three thousand years ago
about a beautiful face
whose name is lost
in a sea of silence
that’s easily confused
with the most barren desert.

It’s enough to make a blank page
scream
at all the dead writers
who stole some immortality,
even if only with a few words
sneaking pass death
to hijack living voices.

Words Like These

These words are spilled whisky
on Saturday nights,
when Sundays have nothing
to do with god,
but are hangovers at 6 AM
crying like a newborn.

My hands shaking
from all the hours painted black
and the poems face down
in empty glasses.
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Richard LeDue (he/him) lives in Norway House, Manitoba, Canada. He writes poems. His last collection, Another Another, was released from Alien Buddha Press in May 2025.


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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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