Booktok Poetry Novels & Stories

Turning the music off, I grab the lavender and put it in a tiny glass vase, and set it in the center of the long ebony black dining table. Walking out of the conjoined dining room and kitchen I grab my book, my water bottle, and a blanket. I set the water and blanket by the back door that leads to the porch, and the beach a little off, and head back to the kitchen with my book. Of human bondage, by W. Somerset Maugham. The book itself isn't bad, but from my point of view, it's terribly bland. I like more poetic works. But also a hint of darkness. The best example is the poem, In the Desert, by Stephen Crane, from his book The Black Riders and Other Lines. It has a sense of dystopia that I ca

Her work at the local bookstore, once a mundane routine, now felt infused with a sense of meaning. She found herself drawn to the poetry section, her fingers tracing the spines of books she had never explored before. She discovered the delicate beauty of Emily Dickinson's words, the raw emotion of Sylvia Plath's verse, and the lyrical prose of Langston Hughes. Each poem, a window into a different soul, resonated with her own experiences, her own struggles and triumphs.

I say and go up to my room. I drop into my blue bean bag in front of the fish tank. I take the Poems, book out of my jacket pocket and hold it up. Easter Holidays is the first poem in this book. It's followed by Dura Navis and I don't know what to do with this other than to summarize what I thought these poems meant in tenth grade. I've never gotten gifts for my birthday. It never felt like a celebration for us. "Have you seen my other boot?" Miles asks. I turn back to see Micca toss it to him from the bed. "Sweet,"

“Then I guess you can say I’m a book festival virgin?” “You can, but I wouldn’t.” Anna suppressed a giggle. “Here’s the floor plan.” She showed the paper to Nate and pointed to one of the designated booth assignments. “The poetry and art section is at the far end of the show. I have a good friend, John Gorham, who is a world renowned cowboy poet.” “Cowboy poet?” Nate replied skeptically. “Is that a real thing?”

The sky was splashed with brilliant stars which illuminated not only the atmosphere but also people's hearts. Nneoma sat on her bed, munching popcorn. At that moment, she reached for a poetry book on her cupboard which she had purchased at a bookshop during the holidays. It was titled; Chimes of Golden Tunes. 'I've not read the poems,' she murmured opening the book. She positioned herself well on the bed and flipped the pages. Arriving on the first poem, she read the title slowly. 'The Iridescent Stars; mmh… Typical of tonight.'

She had to summarize all that in that first encounter or otherwise she would be wasting her time. He was looking down at his book, legs crossed. “Love is A Dog From Hell” by Charles Bukowski. An excellent choice of literature, she thought. He was wearing a long-sleeved knitted sweater and washed-out blue jeans, dark brown leather boots, too clean for hiking boots, he looked more like an indoor guy.

Her favorite by the writer. He was young, definitely younger than her, dressed in jeans with holes and a white linen shirt tucked in the front with a brown leather jacket over it. His hair was dark brown, almost black and hung in loose ringlets to his shoulders. He was wearing what looked like very expensive boots. He may have been the most beautiful man she had ever seen, in person. He glanced her way and his eyes met hers. They were so blue she was sure they were contacts. She was flushed, she could feel it. She looked down and started toward the other side of the shelf, trying to seem unaffected. She peeked through the books and noticed he was coming closer, still thumbing through the boo

He flipped open the book she had just read, which was no longer a boring and tasteless medical book, but a comic book written by Jimmy. Blake was naturally not interested in these childish things, but he continued to flip through them one by one, rubbing his fingers on the pages as if Avery's body temperature and smell were still there. When the book reached the last page, the title page was filled with a short poem: "We watch fish love birds, cats love mice, dinosaurs and frogs, princesses, and princesses, we see meteors fly past, we watch trees bloom, and I cannot wait for you to fall in love with my miracle!"

The edges were frayed, the spine cracked with use. “Sometimes,” I said, closing the book I had been reading and placing it on my lap. He stepped closer, just enough to place the poetry book on the table near me. “Read this,” he said simply. No ‘please.’ No explanation. Just a command, like everything else in this place.

The fireplace crackled softly, casting amber light across the lakehouse living room. Shadows danced across the walls as the wind outside whispered through the trees. Inside, time felt suspended. Ava sat cross-legged on the thick rug, the warmth of the fire brushing her bare arms. She was reading from a dog eared poetry collection she’d found tucked between old novels on a high shelf. The spine was cracked. The pages smelled like memories. The poems weren’t curated or famous just raw, honest words scrawled by someone who must’ve loved too deeply.