Poet Novels & Stories

Master Graden had a collection of poetry books in his home library and she had read them during her free time. The poem was titled, "A Red, Red Rose" composed by Scotland's national poet, Robert Burns. It described the poet's deep love for his beloved and promised that his love would last longer than human life and even the planet itself, remaining fresh and constant forever. The words were so moving and Melissa felt her heart warmed instantly.

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.

The most astonishing thing was that every title tried to minister to me so much more that I was confused. There is a poem titled 'HOPE', there was 'VAGUE AS AIR', 'DEATH AND IT'S PEACE' and other incredible poems all written by Trevor. I read each poem and felt as if he was talking to me directly. His choice of words, sentence construction and presentation of life scenarios embedded in words is just beautiful. Now this guy was not just a devilishly handsome man with a great sense of humor but a writing god. Then I came across the piece I termed my best. I read it over and over again muttering each line. The poem is titled 'SPEAK TO YOURSELF' and it reads thus...

I said, grabbing the book off of the shelf and showing Kai proudly. That was a bit easier than I thought it would be. That was at least reassuring. He took the book from me and flipped through it, confusion lining his features. “Our next clue is a book of poetry?” “Yes. No, not exactly,” I said, biting my lip and flipping the book open until I got to the right poem. “This is a book of poems from the infamous Austrian poet Rainer Maria Rilke. My favorite poem is this one.” I showed him. I was not huge on poetry, but Rilke was a complete genius with his words, and I would be an idiot to ignore that

Her tears at that time falling for me felt like a huge universe gifted my way which I was ever ready as I could be to grasp tight. I was a fucking moron to hurt her time by time. I wanted her with me. Her heartbeats to synchronize with mine. She was it for me and I wanted myself to be it for her. But not anymore. \'''If I were a poet I would write sonnets Dedicating to your beauty with utmost honest! If I were a priest! I would preach your love with utmost sweet! But Alas! I'm none of the above In your world, I am just a wild beast!'''/

About the Author John Phrey Claro is a college student from the Philippines taking up a bachelor’s degree in Financial Management. He is a self-published author and a poet. He believes that because of poetry and fiction, he found his real melody and his purpose. He started to appreciate the beauty of the world because without him, the world is monochrome.

[7] John Donne is another poet renowned for his love poetry. Novelist[edit] This section is an excerpt from Novelist.[edit] A novelist is an author or writer of novels, though often novelists also write in other genres of both fiction and non-fiction. Some novelists are professional novelists, thus make a living writing novels and other fiction, while others aspire to support themselves in this way or write as an avocation. Most novelists struggle to have their debut novel published, but once published they often continue to be published, although very few become literary celebrities, thus gaining prestige or a considerable inco

I didn't expect that. "That's a really sad book," I say. "You've read it," she straightens up a little. I nod. "And the other one?" "My mom gave it to me," she tightens her hold on it. "Poems, by Samuel Taylor Coleridge and Ernest Hartley Coleridge. Do you know him?" "Yeah. No man was ever yet a good poet, without being at the same time a profound philosopher. I read Poems for an assignment in school," "You went to school?" she all but shouts. I'm taken aback by her outburst.

He once read Haggoz the works of an human poet called Poe, then forced him to memorize passages from his poetry. Perhaps he was fascinated by the poet because of his own melancholy nature and yearning for the unattainable. Whatever the reason, one of the lines written by the ancient human poet was particularly appropriate. “I became insane, with long intervals of horrible sanity.” Now, after all this time those words came back to haunt Haggoz. They defined him perfectly too.

"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