Handwritten Poetry Novels & Stories

I just beamed through it all. He slid a folded sheet of paper into my hand. His handwriting, a poem. Intimate. Vulnerable, everything he never says aloud. I hugged him tightly, this one broke me. Gift sixteen. “Crest…” my voice cracked. “This is beautiful.” “You’re beautiful,” he murmured. “I just wrote what I see.”

[ K A R A ] I spent the entire night reading and rereading Ryder's notes over and over again. His poems were honest and raw. He wrote so beautifully. I never would have imagined the same mouth that said all those dirty jokes could write such romantic things. And okay, I don't mean to sound narcissistic, but are these poems written about me? Am I… ‘K’?

I walk to the back garden. The wind is already there, like it always is in this little corner of the world I’ve carved out for myself. The tree above me sways gently. The bench creaks when I sit, like it’s remembering all the conversations I’ve had with myself here. The envelope doesn’t resist when I tear it open. It opens with the kind of softness that only comes with surrender. His handwriting is sharp, still. Confident strokes, even when the letters bleed a little at the edges.

After the interrogation that day, fuck had a grown woman like me craving, but since there was no cock around and no vibrator, I had to use my fingers to oh yeah that's the spot. When I was done with the masturbation, just then on my phone, a notification beeped in on my Facebook. It didn't seem like me receiving my porn, instead, it was a poem from someone with no profile picture or picture on his wall. His username says Mr Romantic and his poem read, I can never look at a drop of dew in a buttercup without beholding shafts of love in the retreats of your eyes In you there is unity; your face and form is a blend of perfect line and contour

When I turned it over, I saw a tooth or time-etched line: > “We never stopped arriving. We just stopped announcing it.” Elora (the gentlest transcription) I've started writing in ways that go away. Ink that reacts to wind. Petal-pressed glyphs. Moss-arranged impressions. They don’t last. They weren’t meant to. But someone might find them in a breath or a gesture and think, “I feel welcome here, and I don’t know why.” That’s all the recording I ever truly wanted to do. Lila

I opened the card. Inside, Asher's handwriting was neat though heavy. Each line pressed as if he had written it slowly, like he wasn't used to putting feelings into ink. It was a short poem. My eyes skimmed it once, too fast to catch everything. I huffed then forced myself to reread it, slower this time. Savannah, You came to my door with winter in your hair, and stormlight in your eyes that you tried to hide. I am teeth and old law,

At noon, I stepped out to pick up lunch and found a box waiting at the front desk. No label. Just a cream envelope sealed with a silver-inked monogram: A. My pulse jumped. I tucked it under my arm and didn’t open it until I was safely behind the privacy of my office door. Inside was a thin volume of poetry—an old edition, pages slightly yellowed, the cover worn with love. Pressed inside the front flap was a folded card, handwritten in that familiar, controlled script. Layla, I came across this in a tucked-away shop. It reminded me of your voice—how you write with ache, but leave room for light.

"What do you make of this?" The little slip of paper was passed back to her, and despite the fact that it had been kept in the front of the guidebook, it immediately curled itself up into a little scroll, as if it had previously been rolled up for some time. Penny pulled it open and read the words that had been handwritten in dark pen inside: Our love's as wild as the wilderness, Our hearts as big as the sky. I kissed you where the ground bubbles up And swore to be your guy. "What is this?" she asked after her eyes had skimmed the lines twice. "A love poem? I'm a park ranger, not an English professor."

my eyes glance at the first word on the last two lines and say, “EN” “KAREN?” He calls out and I look up at him. “Yes?” I answer and I frown when I see him concentrating on the word without pressing the enter button. “No, I mean the word you just gave me is KAREN, as in your name.” I am still having a hard time understanding what he’s saying until I glance up and look at the arrangement of the poem, and then I understood and realise that it’s Karen. Then it hit me what I haven’t thought of since all the while. This is the World of Poetry and like William said earlier, he has always wanted to be a poet, but what I never asked was if he has tried writing any poem because from what I just saw,

She eats without looking up. At three, she says, without looking away from the screen, "The seventy-one-year-old poet." "Yes?" "He has been writing the same sequence for forty years. About his neighborhood." She pauses. "He says he does not know if they are good. He just knows they are true." I come to stand beside her. Read over her shoulder. The email is three short paragraphs, formally written, with the specific careful grammar of someone who learned to write in a different era and has not stopped taking it seriously.