Poetry On Book Novels & Stories

Things forgotten touch me now— & they’re clouding me w/ forgiveness, rethinking the time I was asked the question I knew I would never understand, but that question brings things—slow walks, time & space, Fleetwood Mac glistening living rooms w/ home & midnight specials—wrapped w/ the cellophane intention that such question I wouldn’t forget could somehow become a beautiful title for a first book in poetry.

In the center stood a grand pedestal, upon which rested an ancient tome. Leori and Adonis approached the pedestal with a mix of reverence and anticipation. The tome beckoned to them, its pages filled with the accumulated wisdom of generations past. As Leori opened the book, the words inscribed within seemed to come alive, whispering secrets of forgotten realms and uncharted possibilities.

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.

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—"

Yam sliced it open slowly, hands trembling. Inside was their book. “The Art of Staying.” Cover: a sunflower. A crooked shelf. Two mugs—one chipped. And behind it all, the suggestion of a fan, mid-spin. Franc stared at it like it might whisper back. “Feels unreal,” Yam said. Franc flipped through pages. Some with artwork. Others with Yam’s poetry. Their story—wired beginnings and all—now bound in matte finish. “I think this book breathes,” Franc said.

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 genius.

Most were about history, leadership, strategy. But there were a few that surprised me. Poetry. Classic literature. A worn copy of The Count of Monte Cristo. I smiled despite everything. Xavier reading poetry felt… unexpected. I pulled the poetry book out. Flipped through it. Some pages were dog-eared. Lines underlined. “The wound is the place where the Light enters you.” My throat tightened. I put the book back so fast you would think it burned me. Then I moved to his desk.

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.

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.