Novels Poetry Novels & Stories

he asked without looking up. “What book are you reading?” Pollux turned the cover toward me, his brow raised slightly. I leaned in to read the worn title. *Venus and Adonis*. Shakespeare. Was he serious? “Shakespeare? Really?” I propped my chin up, suppressing a smile. “What’s wrong with that?” “Are you a poet or something?” I teased. “You don’t have to be a poet to read poetry,” he responded, his tone matter-of-fact. He had a point. You didn’t need to belong to something to appreciate it—just like how I didn’t have to be a wolf to love a werewolf. His words hit me deeper than they should have, awakening something inside me that I hadn’t fully acknowledged.

A minute later, he looked over at Emmie who was silently eating and watching him. “Okay, so I know that they’re not crime novels, and you have never written poetry or anything, but you said you don’t have many books of your own, and that you’d want to try writing poetry, and so these are a few of my favorites that seem to have similar writing style to yours,” she rambled, worried that he didn’t like them. “Thank you,” Ramsay immediately said when she was finished. “I really love it, Emms. Thank you.”

"What do you enjoy reading, Lord Pembroke?" "Well" He paused to think as they both studied the titles stacked neatly on the shelves. "I like a bit of everything. It's good to be well versed in many things, but I suppose I like a bit of poetry most, aside from novels." "Poetry?" Miss Beaumont's blue-gray eyes grew wide. "Most gentlemen of my acquaintance have no patience for poetry." "A pity for them. Poetry is a window to a person's soul. With just a few words, a great writer can move mountains. I read it when I need to find a place of strength." He realized he was revealing far more of himself to this woman than he had intended to.

Dark wooden benches and tables, dim lights, old cream coloured tiled floors, and dark heavy book shelves all around. "Ok", both of us start speaking at the same time. "You go ahead", Jake insists. "I think we should focus on the differences of the harder ones first. I mean the difference to write a novel or a poetry is pretty obvious. While I think radio and TV drama, screenwriting and stage drama are harder to pick apart." "Totally agree with you." "Honestly? You are not making a fuss about this or mocking me?" I look up at him in disbelief. "Why the hell should I, I thought about it in the same way. How about each of us takes one of the topics first, checks up all the characteristics and t

He returned his attention to the bookshelf at the rear of his office, the one he’d been browsing when he’d first heard the strange sounds outside, only being made by the cats, after all. The top shelf held purely “literary works.” Poetry collections of Blake, Yeats, Robert Frost, and Shakespeare. Prose collections of Zora Neal Hurston, Hemingway, Nathaniel Hawthorne, Flannery O’Connor, and folktales collected by the Brothers Grimm. Novels, from The Man in the Iron Mask to Madame Bovary, to Villette and Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte, to A Passage to India by E. M. Forster.

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