Romans & histoires Good Poetry Books To Read

we same in unison pointing to each other. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ ------------- “There is no such thing as a good story. There is only something like a good book. A good book is where a reader finds complete solace and comfort; a way to escape harsh realities relating to his life” - R.A Higheels If you liked this chapter, please consider leaving a review!

that's literally just milk and cereal in separate bowls. "Revolutionary," he deadpans. In the poetry section, he stops and pulls down a slim volume with a worn cover. Flips through it slowly until he finds what he's looking for. "Listen to this." His voice drops lower, intimate in the quiet space. He reads a poem about two people finding each other again after years apart, about second chances and choosing love despite fear. The words are simple but devastating, made more so by the way he reads them—slow and deliberate, like each line matters.

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.'

I said, pointing to the nearby shelf. I walked ahead quickly, hoping she’d stop to process what I said — maybe stand there for a second, pretending to browse while secretly thinking about it. But no. She was still beside me, pushing the cart like nothing happened. Seriously, what build did God give you, huh? We reached the poetry section. Sydney’s eyes softened the moment she saw the shelves. She reached for a book titled The Gift of Everything and placed it in the cart like she was laying a newborn down to sleep. I couldn’t help smiling.

The man always looks vibrant to Gracie, this moment especially with his red hair and beard, the blue clothing against the greenery of the trees and river. “What are you reading?” Gracie, taken back a little by his energy and concentration on her, lets out a sigh. “It is a book of nature poems, something with impermanence in the title. It is quite pleasant. It helps remind me to slow down, focus on nature, marvel, and breathe.” “Sounds nice, slow down and focus on nature. I may have to try that some time. You like poetry?” “Yes, I have always liked poetry and writing in general. So, what are you up to?” the woman asks.

"Show me. Show me who you are when you're not being perfect. When you're not trying to prove anything. Just you." He's quiet for a long moment. Then he pulls away. Goes back to the chair. Picks up the book again. "Sit," he says. I sit. He opens the book. Finds a page. Starts reading. His voice changes. Softens. Like the words mean something. Like they're important. It's poetry. Old. Beautiful. About wolves and moonlight and bonds that transcend death. I close my eyes. Let his voice wash over me. Let myself just feel.

“For something. I don’t know what yet.” “You’re welcome to it.” They moved along the shelf. The city outside had settled into its late evening quiet. At one point a group passed on the pavement, laughing, audible through the glass before the sound faded. At the poetry section Delphine stopped. “Do you read poetry?” she said. “I live in a bookshop,” Sera said. “That’s not an answer.” “I read it the way I listen to music. Not to extract meaning. To be inside the sound of it.”

"Good night." He went home. He put his three books on the shelf in the order he intended to read them. He stood in his living room, which felt occupied again in the way it had begun to feel occupied since last Wednesday, and thought about side-by-side versus face-to-face, and a poetry section, and when prose feels like too much scaffolding for the thing being said. He took the poetry collection off his shelf — he owned one, had owned it for years, had read it twice and not returned to it — and sat on the sofa with it for the first time in a long time and thought about how some things required less scaffolding.

“Makes sense.” That surprised me a little. I expected a comment. Or judgment. Or that usual tone he used when he thought something was pointless but didn’t care enough to argue. Instead he just… accepted it. So I leaned into the conversation instead. “This book is actually good,” I said, tapping it lightly. “It’s mostly poetry centered on grief and memory and how people pretend they’re okay when they’re not.” His eyes flicked down to it again. “Sounds depressing.” “It’s not depressing,” I said immediately. “It’s emotional.”

I pulled one out at random, a collection of poetry, and began to read. I sat on the couch, surrounded by the silence of the beach house, lost in the words of the poetry book. The verses spoke of love, loss, and longing. I felt a pang in my chest as I read, recognizing the emotions that had been swirling inside me. The poet's words were like a mirror, reflecting my own thoughts and feelings back at me.