Poems About Books And Reading Novels & Stories

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.

This was what contentment felt like. This was what having your entire world contained in your arms felt like. “What are you reading?” I asked, noting the way she relaxed completely against me, trusting me to hold her, to keep her safe. “Poetry. Some old collection I found in the back corner.” “Any good?” “Some of it. Though most of it is very dramatic. Lots of tortured souls and unrequited love.” “Sounds depressing.” “A little. But some of the love poems are beautiful. Listen to this one.” She opened the book and began to read in that soft, musical voice that never failed to capture my complete attention.

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?”

My mother guided me through the aisles, her fingers lightly tracing the spines of the books as she shared her favorite stories with me. Each book held a different world within its pages, and as my mother opened them, the scenes came to life before our very eyes. We traveled through time, witnessing historical events, exploring distant lands, and delving into fantastical realms. I was captivated by the richness of the stories, the depth of the characters, and the boundless imagination that leapt off the pages. In this library of dreams, my mother and I shared laughter and tears, exchanging thoughts and ideas, and immersing ourselves in the beauty of storytelling. It was a sanctuary of knowled

To her dismay, Jane found herself walking down the hall to English with Lucy by her side, still talking, talking, talking. "I didn't know you were such a big reader, Jane," Lucy said, smiling at her. "I guess because your book-report books are always so short. But length isn't what matters in a book. I love a lot of short books, too. Just look at poetry. A poem can be any length. There are millions of wonderful poems that are only a few lines long. Like Emily Dickinson's poems. She can say more in two lines than most people can say in a hundred pages. What part are you up to in A Tale of Two Cities?"

“You look like a kid in a candy store.” “Don’t mock me. This is sacred.” She darted down an aisle, running her fingers reverently across the spines of novels. Reid trailed behind, occasionally pulling out a book to skim but he’s behind her each time. At one point, he stopped and held up a book. “This one.” Raees blinked. “What is it?” He handed it to her. “The woman on the cover page reminded me of you.” She turned the cover over, seeing the face, then she smiled, proceeding to read the title. It was a collection of poems centering on different topics, some love, some strength, some just stories written . “Reid…”

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.

The fireplace crackled softly, casting amber light across the lakehouse living room. Shadows danced across the walls as the wind outside whispered through the trees. Inside, time felt suspended. Ava sat cross-legged on the thick rug, the warmth of the fire brushing her bare arms. She was reading from a dog eared poetry collection she’d found tucked between old novels on a high shelf. The spine was cracked. The pages smelled like memories. The poems weren’t curated or famous just raw, honest words scrawled by someone who must’ve loved too deeply.

Her favorite by the writer. He was young, definitely younger than her, dressed in jeans with holes and a white linen shirt tucked in the front with a brown leather jacket over it. His hair was dark brown, almost black and hung in loose ringlets to his shoulders. He was wearing what looked like very expensive boots. He may have been the most beautiful man she had ever seen, in person. He glanced her way and his eyes met hers. They were so blue she was sure they were contacts. She was flushed, she could feel it. She looked down and started toward the other side of the shelf, trying to seem unaffected. She peeked through the books and noticed he was coming closer, still thumbing through the boo

I force my feet to move towards the desk, where in the drawer I keep the box with all the notes. I pull it out and let all the notes fall to yhe ground next to me, as I try to gather them to form the complete poem. She smelled of books and stories Of all the worlds she'd lived within As though the ink had left the pages To find a new home in her skin She didn't quite belong here Lived a life within her head Like she'd slipped out from the covers Of a paperback instead And I'd see it in her eyes That they were deeper than a well