Poet Novels & Stories

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

My lips press together in thought, “Have you ever played the game before?” He smiles and “No,” he replies straightway. My brow rises and my eye dim in scrutiny. “Why?” “Simple, I’ve never been broke.” He says. I roll my eyes, but my cheeks warm up. “Whoever made this is a smart bastard or a sick obsessor.” “Or maybe an unapologetic lover.” “You’re right.” A new revelation has popped into my head as he just said this. If the writer is an unapologetic lover and a devoted poet, maybe the answer is not just a word that we can invent, but a word that is already in the poem.

"Today will be a truly inspiring day. I'll be having the privilege of witnessing incredible performances that celebrate cultures from around the world." He pauses, scanning the attentive faces before him. "I want to share something personal with you all," Ryan continues. "Consider it an inauguration. I have always had a passion for poetry. It's a form of expression that allows me to delve into emotions and stories in a way that connects deeply with others." Whispers of interceptions ripple through the audience as Ryan opens up, his words genuine and heartfelt. "Writing poetry has been a source of solace and inspiration for me. T

“But I have seniority. That makes my mistakes forgivable.” He collapsed onto the floor beside me, panting through his laughter. “You’re just old.” “Old enough to know better,” I countered. “Old enough to know that poems aren’t just words, they’re maps. They take you to who you’re supposed to be.” Liam was quiet for a moment. Then, in a smaller voice, “And who am I supposed to be?” “Someone who remembers,” I said. “Someone who keeps the good parts alive.”