Poetry About Books Novels & Stories

“Move on. She’s not here.” We waited until we were sure they were gone. “I like books,” I told him quietly. “Books?” Aien raised an eyebrow. “That’s a rather wide subject.” “I like stories,” I blushed. “I like learning about the past, reading the stories of other people’s lives and adventures. In Uyan Taesil, there is a library so very full of books that I feel I could read every day for the remainder of my life and never reach the end of them. That seems like a great shame, don’t you think? That there are stories right there on the shelves, on that parchment, that I will never know, and that, perhaps, no one else will either, for I’m quite certain that, other than my father, no one ever goe

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The crackling fire spat, dawning in me the realization that even in the stillness of the night, there was still warmth to be found. I involuntarily walked towards a certain shelf containing a familiar row of books, my hands scaling slowly through the books there. It was poetry,my favourite while young. back then it was an old friend, a comfort whenever I come to the library after a long and tiring day. I fell in love with poetry, and it fell in love with me. As I opened the book of poetry that night, I scanned through the pages of the book. It all seemed to come alive as I stood there,the large book on my arm.

“What do you read when you’re not being paid to alphabetize it?” “Receipts,” I deadpanned. “And warning labels.” He laughed. Not loud. Real. It landed in the center of me and spread warmth in all the places hunger liked to live. “Poetry,” I admitted after a beat. “The kind that cuts and then kisses the wound. Histories written by the losers. Field guides for plants that are trying to kill you.” “Useful,” he said. “Necessary,” I corrected.

“Something real. Not a memory of a party or a name of a person we both hate. Tell me something you see right now.” I looked around the room. I saw the way the firelight danced on the gold leaf of the book spines. I saw the dust motes dancing in the air like tiny, silent stars. I saw the way the shadows made him look younger, softer. “I see the fire,” I said, my voice low and melodic. “It’s dying down to embers, a soft, glowing orange. It looks like the heart of a mountain. And the books… they look like a city of paper, all standing at attention, waiting for someone to listen to them. And I see a man who is far more than the darkness he’s been handed.”

I only felt a deep sense of satisfaction. Dylan's tears fell. Suddenly, he looked up and lunged at me, grabbing my neck. "Fiona, it's you! You poisoned my parents! You killed them!" His grip was firm. Soon, everything went black before my eyes. Fear gripped my heart as my hands clenched tightly. Bernice rushed over, desperately trying to pull his hands away. "Dylan, stop! This has nothing to do with Fiona. In fact, she's been running around trying to help today. Don't be ungrateful!"

The books were mostly collections of poetry, with a powerful presence of works by William Shakespeare. “The Tempest,” she murmured, excitement evident in her voice. It brought back memories of her school days when she had wanted to borrow the book from the library, only to find it unavailable. She had never bought it herself, worrying about the burden of moving with too many belongings during her frequent relocations. Her fingers hovered over the spines of the books, dabbing them but refraining from pulling any off the shelf. “Let it go, Chom,” Ladapha sighed to herself, attempting to shake off her longing. She turned to leave but startled with a soft gasp, “Oh!”

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.

He asks and I chuckle. "This book is about a war between dragons and shit. It's not like a cook book or a knitting class." I say, chewing on some ice as I type up the description online. "Stop chewing on ice, you're gonna ruin your teeth." Jack barks through the phone, but I ignore him. "Yes or no? I'm sure Mrs. B would just give us the books. You're the one who was bitching that we need to try new things." I say and he groans a little, obviously annoyed by me.

Piper — cat, queen, bookstore menace — stalked over the counter like she owned it and plopped herself on the pile. "You're in the way," Aria said. Piper blinked at her, stretched, and knocked a paperback to the floor. "You're fired." The bell above the door rang just before noon. A woman stepped in, tall, sharp, her coat the green of frozen leaves. "Do you have anything that feels like winter?" she asked. "Genre?" "Poetry. Something cold." Aria nodded, stepping toward a shelf. She traced the spines until she found it: The Book of Hours by Rilke. She handed it over without a word.