Poetry On Book Novels & Stories

The fireplace crackled softly, casting amber light across the lakehouse living room. Shadows danced across the walls as the wind outside whispered through the trees. Inside, time felt suspended. Ava sat cross-legged on the thick rug, the warmth of the fire brushing her bare arms. She was reading from a dog eared poetry collection she’d found tucked between old novels on a high shelf. The spine was cracked. The pages smelled like memories. The poems weren’t curated or famous just raw, honest words scrawled by someone who must’ve loved too deeply.

But my hand closed around empty space. My heart thudded so hard I thought it might crack a rib. I grabbed the poetry book and tossed it onto the bed, pawing through every page, every bookmark, hoping I’d misplaced it. Maybe I’d hidden it between pages, paranoid someone might find it in the drawer. Maybe— But page after page, there was nothing. Just dry printed words about love, death, betrayal and spring. Words that mocked the churning horror blooming in my chest.

I can visualize the clock wheels turning in his head, trying to decide if I am capable of understanding the complex poem. I like a challenge! I sit, ignoring the warmth spreading through my body as I lie close to Bryce, opening the tome, and I gasp. The artwork on the page is beautiful and elegant. The lettering reminds me of "The Book of Kells," a real work of art. But I do not have the time to carefully examine the intricate patterns and designs created in different colored inks.

It no longer felt like hiding; it felt like breathing. She met him at a small independent bookstore in Al Quoz—a converted warehouse with high ceilings, exposed brick, shelves that reached toward skylights. She was in the poetry section, running her fingers along spines of Warsan Shire and Safia Elhillo, when a voice—low, calm, slightly accented—came from the aisle behind her. “You read her like someone who’s lived every line.” She turned.

My tears rolled and crept down my face and landed between the pages beneath and on my chest. I take the corner of the cover carefully and hold it between my finger and thumb. I open to a blank page. I then keep on going and I see writing on all pages. "Poems." I breathe. Most are written in blank ink, some in pencil. All of them are drawn with a careless yet wispy style of writing. His writing. I keep on turning the pages in awe. My eyes can't keep up with the endless stream of words. I reach the end of the book.

Turning the music off, I grab the lavender and put it in a tiny glass vase, and set it in the center of the long ebony black dining table. Walking out of the conjoined dining room and kitchen I grab my book, my water bottle, and a blanket. I set the water and blanket by the back door that leads to the porch, and the beach a little off, and head back to the kitchen with my book. Of human bondage, by W. Somerset Maugham. The book itself isn't bad, but from my point of view, it's terribly bland. I like more poetic works. But also a hint of darkness. The best example is the poem, In the Desert, by Stephen Crane, from his book The Black Riders and Other Lines. It has a sense of dystopia that I ca

I had never had anyone write a poem about me, let alone a book full of poetry. "Maybe when I have something important to tell you I shouldn't write a poetry book about it". He said and I nodded, against his chest my hands going underneath my chin as I scooted myself up his chest, our lips perfectly aligned. I hoped every important thing from now would be told person to person, our eyes interlocked, noticing each other's mood, noticing their stance. I hoped every important thing from now would not be in. A book that I had to search for something unknown that I didn't know I needed. "I loved your book... I'll keep it forever". I hummed softly and he smiled at my gesture, his hands creeping up

This book was more than just a mere collection of words on paper - it was a treasure trove of knowledge, a gateway to a world beyond our own. As I read on, the moon cast its pale light across the room, bathing everything in an eerie glow. I lost track of time, lost in the secrets that lay before me. Every line I read seemed to unlock a new mystery, a new revelation. The more I read, the more my curiosity grew, until I was completely consumed by the book's power.

Through the window, he could vaguely see a young man driving. His pride stopped him from chasing after her for an explanation, but the question haunted him all the way home. "Is it because I have nothing right now?" Back home, he pulled a poetry collection from the shelf. Inside was a bookmark made from a neatly pressed sycamore leaf. Written on it in black ink was: [O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being.] He tucked the bookmark into his collection of European poetry, right on the page of John Keats' On First Looking into Chapman's Homer.

Gladys says, smiling at me and the ladies scream in longing at what has been bestowed for me. “Lastly…” Gladys says, presenting a stack of book towards me. “This is a volume of the king’s favorite books, bound in the finest leather and edged in gold. These poems are shared with you as a token of his desire to connect through the words that move him." Once again, there is an audible sigh spread through the women. "To share his favorite verses," one woman mused aloud. “To connect with him on such an intimate level... What I would give to hold that book, to read the words that move him." Another adds.