SAMANTHA TERRELL - POET / EIC, SHINE Poetry Series
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Oct.7~ BOOK FEATURE:  Jane Rosenberg LaForge

10/7/2025

 
Welcome back, poetry lovers! I'm pleased to share a second installment of this month's mini book series here at SHINE -- today, with Jane Rosenberg LaForge's brand new collection, The Exhaust of Dreams Adulterated, out this month from Broadstone Books. I was honored to have an early look at this poignant collection, and I hope you enjoy my review. You can purchase your copy of The Exhaust of Dreams Adulterated by clicking on the cover image below my review. Have a pleasant day! 
The Exhaust of Dreams Adulterated (Broadstone Books) by Jane Rosenberg LaForge is a masterful reflection on personal discernment gained through familial distresses. Rosenberg LaForge gives readers a look into her childhood and upbringing, and follows that arc through to her concerns for her own children and our collective future. I especially appreciated Rosenberg LaForge’s skill with opening lines, such as, open the throat to the parenthetical | the toasting of goals | to initiative and hindsight (“The Meaning of Echoes”), or In grade school fire was | A triangle. (“Fireproofing”), and so many more. Some of my favorites in this book are “Family Business,” “Second Life,” and “Run for Your Life.” A terrific collection.

-SAMANTHA TERRELL, EIC
SHINE international poetry series

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Jane Rosenberg LaForge is a poet, fiction writer, and occasional essayist living in New York. Her 2021 novel, Sisterhood of the Infamous (New Meridian Arts Press), was a finalist for the National Indie Excellence Award in regional fiction (west); and her 2018 novel, The Hawkman: A Fairy Tale of the Great War (Amberjack Publishing), was a finalist in two categories in the Eric Hoffer Awards. She is the author of four full-length collections of poetry; four chapbooks of poetry; and an experimental memoir, An Unsuitable Princess (Jaded Ibis Press 2014). Jane reads poetry submissions for COUNTERCLOCK literary magazine and reviews books for American Book Review. She has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize for poetry and fiction, and for the Best of the Net multiple times. She was most recently nominated for the Pushcart Prize and the Best of the Net for her 2022 poem, "For a Friend Going Deaf.”


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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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