Poetry Books To Read Novels & Stories

“I think that is time I leave you. I will see you later, Raina.” I looked around the room that I was now locked in. I looked through every draw, every cabinet, and through a small closet, only stumbling across a small book of poetry. I could only assume that it had been left there by the previous occupant of the room. I had always enjoyed poetry. I sat down on the bed and began reading the book. The poetry was eloquently written and quite meaningful. I could feel the emotions of the writer dripping out of every line. One particular line stood out to me as I read:

These good hours that he/she would invest in a good read would leave a little smile on their everyday gloomy faces. After reading the whole series of Harry Potter I was aspired to be one of their kind. I even put the protective charms outside my room, to keep away all the evil and I believe it sort of worked. I grew up reading Shakespeare, Conan Doyle, Ruskin Bond, Agatha Christie, Jane Austen, William Wordsworth, John Green, Lemony Snicket and many such marvelous writers and poets. Though one may not be able to create stories or write poems, one can always entertain themselves by reading the enriching literature that lets you explore the world, without having to move your feet.

He returned his attention to the bookshelf at the rear of his office, the one he’d been browsing when he’d first heard the strange sounds outside, only being made by the cats, after all. The top shelf held purely “literary works.” Poetry collections of Blake, Yeats, Robert Frost, and Shakespeare. Prose collections of Zora Neal Hurston, Hemingway, Nathaniel Hawthorne, Flannery O’Connor, and folktales collected by the Brothers Grimm. Novels, from The Man in the Iron Mask to Madame Bovary, to Villette and Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte, to A Passage to India by E. M. Forster.

But she… didn’t flinch. Lena walked over to a little table display and picked up a thin, cloth-bound book. She walked over to him, holding it out like an offering. *The Quiet Between Lightning Strikes.* A poetry book. The cover was old and nubbly, the title scribbled in fine silver ink. Julian stared at it like it was an alien thing. "What's this?" "A book," she said, smiling. "I told you. I don't—"

But here, under the soft hum of old lights and surrounded by paper and ink, it eased. She moved toward the back room, flipping the CLOSED sign even though the door was unlocked. Technically, they didn’t open until ten. Technically, she didn’t care. Back among the shelves, she let her fingertips drift over cracked spines and dog - eared corners. Each book whispered differently. Some loud, some quiet. Some didn’t whisper at all. But one — near the middle, in the poetry section no one ever touched — felt warm. Warmer than it should’ve.

Neither of us mentioned it. “I didn’t realize you read poetry,” I said, sliding a thin book into place. “Occasionally,” he admitted. “Usually when I can’t sleep. There’s something… grounding about it.” “I get that,” I said, my fingers lingering on the spine of a weathered collection. “It’s like trying to make sense of feelings you can’t name.” He looked at me then, long enough that I felt my pulse shift. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “Exactly like that.”

She grabbed a book of poetry after going back to the kitchen to bring out the breakfast. She liked Robert Frost and Emily Dickinson, and she felt that the poems they wrote portrayed a special sense of beauty and vividness. "Hope is the thing with feathers, that perches in the soul, and sings the tune without the words, and never stops at all," "And sweetest in the gale is heard, And sore must be the storm, that could abash the little bird, that kept so many warm."

I prompted. “I am reading the epic poems by the Fae Sage Yric of Cynraed, most particularly the Paragon of Theodghar and the Deceit of Elovyn.” “Poetry,” I sat back on my heels and regarded him in bemusement. The beautiful golden-haired man was absorbed in reading poetry, or all the unusual things for him to possibly be reading in a dragon’s cave, poetry had not even entered my speculative list. “I did not imagine you would read poetry.”

I noticed he had categorised his books according to genres: Fiction Politics Classics Poetry History Romance Wow! I hadn't imagined him to have such a wide variety of books. It seemed like he was an avid reader. My fingers brushed against the leather-bound spines of the books. Most of them appeared to be limited editions from their paper and bindings. I passed through the poetry section. Selected Poems by John Keats Tennyson’s Poetry So many classic poetry books. I continued forward. Lord of the Rings War and Peace Frankenstein

She's a nice girl, even though I'm more likely to remember the entire makeup routine than her name. The will to leave the room evaporates from my body. Strolling around, I find a book in one of the drawers. It's old, and the cover has faded halfway. I know not to judge a book by its cover, but this book looks less appealing than a sandwich without filling. With nothing better to do, I decide to read it. It turns out to be a poetry anthology with different poems. Surprisingly, they're interesting. I read a few before dozing off.