SAMANTHA TERRELL - POET / EIC, SHINE Poetry Series
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Oct.14~ BOOK FEATURE: Carol Mikoda

10/14/2025

 
Hello again, poetry lovers! Next up in SHINE's mini October book series, is a brand new title by Upstate New York poet, Carol Mikoda. Carol's book Outside of Time launched last week from Kelsay Books. It was an honor to have an early peek at this new collection. Here's my review. You can purchase your copy by clicking on the cover art below. Thank you, Carol, for sharing your news with the SHINE poetry community!
In Outside of Time (Kelsay Books), Carol Mikoda proffers nature as metaphor for meaning, and the abstract as explainable by the observable world. She broaches heavy topics such as the concept of time and purposeful existence, in this aptly named collection; and teases at an underlying theme of acceptance (howsoever the reader wishes to interpret it). And Mikoda does not disappoint the reader who expects a bit of her wit and whimsy – with poems such as “Time Travellers” and “When the Time Comes.” For me, the closing line from “In My Midnight Kitchen” sums up the concept of this book beautifully, I fill a bowl with acceptance | of whatever is present now, | and also | now. Mikoda’s new collection strikes the crucial balance between what is pleasant to read, and what is important to read. Don’t miss it!
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​-SAMANTHA TERRELL, EIC
SHINE international poetry series
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After a long career as an educator, Carol Mikoda now spends much of her time writing poetry. Under the influence of ee cummings, Rumi, Hafiz, Bashō, Millay, Oliver, and others, she writes poems filled with nature and spirit, from her yellow table above Seneca Lake in central New York State. Her work has appeared in many literary journals, most recently Wild Greens, Inkfish, and Blue Heron Review. Her first chapbook, While You Wait, is available from the author; her second, Wind and Water, Leaf and Lake, is available from Finishing Line Press. Her prose poem, “Jesus at the Pub,” was nominated for Best of the Net and The Pushcart Prize. She has strong attachments to clouds, trees, water, and music. Contact her at [email protected] or through The Yellow Table on Substack.


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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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