Libros De Poesia Novels & Stories

His smile could light up the entire library. He settles into the leather wingback, my favourite chair, the one I curl up in when I want to feel held, and opens his book. I catch a glimpse of the cover. Pablo Neruda. Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair. “Why are you reading that?” He looks up at me. “What?” I clear my throat. What the fuck are you doing Vanessa? I adjust the collar of my shirt. “Neruda. Why are you reading it?”

It's hard to focus without her, but I lead Axar into the small library with me as I begin to search. Having been alive for so long I've acquired many books and ancient pieces of literature. Some are in immaculate shape, others are torn segments and several pages, barely tethered together by bits of spine. Many of these are family heirlooms as well, handwritten and handed down to future generations for guidance. Some are my own notes and contacts, roughly scribed here and there and then stuffed back onto shelves. I find several books on banshees and a couple on cambions. I find some on death as well, and I stack it into my arms with the rest the pile. "Take this one too." Axar softly suggest

I return to the palace, after tiring myself in my forays into these new lands. Jafar informs me where the library is and that there is a plethora of old books, classics of English literature, French and I find Gabriela’s Clove and Cinnamon version in English, besides Captains of Sand and Tereza Batista, all of Jorge Amado, apparently we have a lover of Brazilian literature here in Bahrain. I take a volume of “Grandes sertões veredas” and decide to re-read, writers like Jorge Amado, João Ubaldo Ribeiro, Guimarães Rosa are never too much, it is always a new pleasure to rediscover them.

I noticed he had categorised his books according to genres: Fiction Politics Classics Poetry History Romance Wow! I hadn't imagined him to have such a wide variety of books. It seemed like he was an avid reader. My fingers brushed against the leather-bound spines of the books. Most of them appeared to be limited editions from their paper and bindings. I passed through the poetry section. Selected Poems by John Keats Tennyson’s Poetry So many classic poetry books. I continued forward. Lord of the Rings War and Peace Frankenstein

I make my way through the aisles, my fingers trailing along the spines of books, until I reach the poetry section. I don't know why I'm drawn here. I just am. My body moves like it knows something my brain doesn't. I walk through the poetry section, line by line, shelf by shelf, until I stop. My hand freezes mid-reach. 'Pablo Neruda.' A whole row of his work, lined up neatly, my fingers pause over one book in particular. 'Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair.' I pull it off the shelf slowly, like it might bite me. The cover is worn, soft under my fingers, like someone's held this book a lot and loved it.

Russell Samurai and Other Stories by William Meikle Stuck On You and Other Prime Cuts by Jasper Bark Poetry collections: WAR by Alessandro Manzetti and Marge Simon Brief Encounters with My Third Eye by Bruce Boston No Mercy: Dark Poems by Alessandro Manzetti Eden Underground: Poetry of Darkness by Alessandro Manzetti If you’ve ever thought of becoming an author, we’d also like to recommend these non-fiction titles: The Dead Stage: The Journey from Page to Stage by Dan Weatherer

I wasn't even able to see any particle of dust there. The carpet on the floor was so beautiful too. "What types of books you are reading?" I shivered as I heard Ibrahim saying while entering from the door. I smiled. "I am not reading anything now," I said. He nodded and said. "I was looking for you and one of your attendees said that you are here. So, I came here too." "Ohh," I said and asked him. "Can you suggest to me some poetry books?" He nodded and we both started exploring the library.

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 close the door quietly. I spend an hour in the smaller library looking at the books. He has everything. Fiction. Nonfiction. Art books. History. A whole shelf of poetry that looks like it has never been touched. I pull out a volume of Mary Oliver and flip through it. Someone has dog-eared a page. I read the poem. "Wild Geese." I read it twice.