Poems From Books Novels & Stories

Rachel searched through the pile of poetry books she got from George's personal library. She couldn't find what she was looking for, it seems George didn't read a lot of poetry. She picked the stack of books and walked over to the book shelf, arranging them just like she met them. To find the type of book she was craving for, she would have to go to the general library of the villa.

I say and go up to my room. I drop into my blue bean bag in front of the fish tank. I take the Poems, book out of my jacket pocket and hold it up. Easter Holidays is the first poem in this book. It's followed by Dura Navis and I don't know what to do with this other than to summarize what I thought these poems meant in tenth grade. I've never gotten gifts for my birthday. It never felt like a celebration for us. "Have you seen my other boot?" Miles asks. I turn back to see Micca toss it to him from the bed. "Sweet,"

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.

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.

I pulled one out at random, a collection of poetry, and began to read. I sat on the couch, surrounded by the silence of the beach house, lost in the words of the poetry book. The verses spoke of love, loss, and longing. I felt a pang in my chest as I read, recognizing the emotions that had been swirling inside me. The poet's words were like a mirror, reflecting my own thoughts and feelings back at me.

"Why don't you see if anything speaks to you?" I wander through the narrow aisles, breathing in the scent of old paper and ink. My fingers trail across familiar names—Plath, Oliver, Neruda—poets I used to know by heart. I pull out a slim volume of Mary Oliver's work and flip to a random page: "Tell me, what else should I have done? Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon? Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?"

I gestured at the imposing volume open across her lap. Terra glanced down, pale cheeks coloring slightly. "Oh, it's...not for work." She tilted the embossed cover toward me almost shyly. "Wuthering Heights," I read aloud, surprise lifting my voice. I had not taken Terra for a fanciful romance devotee, especially given her wariness toward me now. But I quite preferred imagining her secretly a dreamer at heart. "A favorite from school days," she explained, fingertips drifting unconsciously to brush the worn cover. "Sometimes after long hours poring over technical manuals, a bit of poetry restores my spirit."

COWRIE He brought me a book the morning after our wedding, something bound in cracked leather, old pages smelling like salt and coal smoke. “It’s from the southern coast,” he said, brushing dust off the spine. “I thought you might like the poems. They’re written in three languages—two I know, one I don’t.” His voice stayed soft, hopeful. I nodded once, took it with both hands, placed it on the windowsill. The wind howled against the glass. I rose, smoothed down the folds of my robe, walked past him without a word, my footsteps slapping against stone.

At ten she put it down. She picked up the Sicilian poet from the corner of the table where it had been since Tuesday. Page fifty-six. The poet writing about a harbor. About standing at the edge of it and understanding that everything that left carrying something came back carrying something else. That the difference was not loss but accumulation. That was what harbors were for. She read the page twice. She put the book down and looked at the kitchen. At the two cups and the quarterly report and the foundation files and everything assembled on this table that was the ordinary work of a life being lived honestly.

A w‌ee‌k after the bookstore, a plain, unmarked package was deliv‌ered to Elara’s studio. There was no⁠ retu‍rn address⁠, no not‍e. W‌ar⁠y⁠, she opened it to find‌ not a weap⁠on or a threat, but a book. Th‍e‍ sam‍e lea‍ther-bo‍und collection of Mary Oliver poems they had both reached for.