Handwritten Poetry Novels & Stories

She was halfway to school before she remembered. The Valentine poem. She had taken care not to sign her name, but she had forgotten to disguise her handwriting. Jane had very distinctive handwriting – square and blocky, almost like printing when someone had left the caps-lock on. It had been the source of many teachers' complaints, but old habit dies hard.

Insecure shoes often obscuring the walls, the sonata of chemicals likens heads to garage tires you’ve spared for cool household principles. I bet you look down, look down so hard to catch the open light unfurling, like a beef falafel surprising schoolchildren from Bandra, Mumbai I earn a living by re-counting poetic lines and make them smell of cardamom. Carton-shroud livelihood makes a statement. To live comfortably is to fall in love with euphoria: 100%. Sweetheart of lies—

She found the poem on a Wednesday. Not in the Sicilian poet. In a notebook she had not seen before ... small, dark blue, the kind that fitted in a jacket pocket. It was on the study desk beside Lorenzo's files and it was open to a page covered in his handwriting. Not the precise operational handwriting she knew from documents and notes. Something different. Looser. The handwriting of someone writing for themselves rather than for communication. She stopped. She looked at it without picking it up.

I pick up the small piece of paper, flipping it over to find something scribbled onto it. “For my beam of moonlight.” It reads and I flip the paper all over again but there was nothing else written on it— not even an indication of who wrote it— nothing but the five word note written with black ink at the center of the plain white paper. My curiosity turns into confusion because this was written in Raegan’s handwriting. Was it from him then? It was poetic, something Raegan would do because he was the only one I know that loved to read and write poems or poetics stuff. It was a trait he’d gotten from mother.

Then the poetry. Handwritten. Sometimes sonnets. Sometimes messy, jagged pieces that felt like they’d been ripped straight from his chest. One read: If I could be the rain that slips down your shoulder, If I could be the sky you look up at in rage I’d let you strike me down, again and again, If only to stay close to your fire. I threw that one in the trash. Three hours later, it was tucked inside the cash register. And then came the books. First editions. Stories I’d loved. Stories I’d once read aloud to Damien in the Blackwood library when we were young and tangled in something that felt like forever.

And began to type. There was no outline, no structure, no goal. Just raw feeling. Vivid words that surfaced as though rescued from a shipwreck within her. Pain became poetry. Loneliness became prose. She wrote for hours. The night passed in silence, broken only by the faint tapping of the digital keyboard and the uneven breathing of someone who, more than venting, was beginning to find herself again. Around six in the morning, when her eyes could barely stay open, Celina set the phone down beside her, curled into the fresh pillow, and finally drifted off to sleep.

The Wednesday morning seven-thirty was the established time, the time that had become the time, the time that was as much a part of the bread Wednesday as the starter or the flour. Ernest poured his coffee. He sat down. Don was writing — the notebook, the early-stage notes, the argument forming in the lines of Don's handwriting that Ernest had been reading across thirty years and could distinguish from other handwritings as easily as a voice. Don's handwriting was the specific quality of Don's handwriting in the early stages of a book — not the careful script of the final draft, not the typed pages of the submission, but the looser, faster hand of the thinking, the words coming onto the page

The right slab showed, "Barns and silos, side by side, with harvests bursting down." The meaning behind the poem was very easy to pick up on. Anyone who had gone through formal education would know what it meant. Moreover, the Prewetts were a family of entrepreneurs. The poem suited their discipline well. But then again, the thing that attracted Cassian's attention the most was the calligraphy itself. The words were scribbled onto the slabs in one go in elegant cursive that flowed like a never-ending river. To Cassian, the calligraphy was aesthetically pleasing to the eye. Most importantly, he could sense the writer's domineering personality behind the words.

"After encountering all kinds of difficulties and experiencing all kinds of hardships, at the end of the day we will see the light at the end of tunnel!" The handwriting was engraved on the black land that had not been thawed. The nicks were very shallow and the characters were almost invisible. There was a faintly dark silver flowing light between strokes. They seemed to be frost on the ground. The light was flowing among strokes, locking a mysterious power in the handwriting. And even the wild beasts and devils with the most sensitive ears and sharpest eyes could not perceive their existence. They were part of a verse inscription. That was Ding Hao's unique way of inscriptions.

He was only gone for a few minutes and when he returned, he was holding what looked like a journal. “This is where I record my poems,” he explained, handing me the book. I stared at the dark brown, average-looking journal, hesitant to take it from him. But he held it out to me with certainty in his eyes. “Are you sure?” I found myself asking. “I wouldn’t be offering if I wasn’t sure.” I took the book from him and flipped open a few pages. He had incredible handwriting that looked like it belonged to the 1800s. I was surprised that his handwriting didn’t upgrade as the centuries went on.