Poetry To Read Novels & Stories

she asked, pulling it out. “Rilke,” I said immediately. “Letters to a Young Poet. One of my favorites.” She flipped it open, reading a passage aloud. Her voice was soft, curious. “Let everything happen to you: beauty and terror. Just keep going. No feeling is final.” She looked up at me after reading it. “That’s… beautiful.” “Yeah,” I said quietly. “It reminds me that we’re all just figuring it out. Life, love… everything.”

Ok class... today, ill be sharing something i wrote with you all. It's a poetry piece. Read carefully. I'll be asking questions later... Oh, my Morning Glory The bright morning sun shoots shafts of light and dark through the blinds, laying bars of mystery down the length of your arching back, creating halos and hollows in your hair.

“Poetry night at the campus café Saturday—bring your hot QB roommate if he’s not dead.” I’d laughed it off at first. Then Dante caught me rereading the group chat and raised an eyebrow. “You should go,” he said. I looked up from my phone. “You hate poetry readings.” “I hate crowds and pretentious assholes quoting Whitman badly. But I don’t hate you being happy.” He shrugged, leaning against his desk in that effortless way that still made my stomach flip. “And I’m curious. I’ve never seen you in your element.” So that was how we ended up at The Brew & Verse, a dimly lit campus café with mismatched chairs, exposed brick walls, and a tiny stage where a girl with purple hair was currently readin

Those forgotten whispers Whose are they? She smiled as she read through her own poem. She could have used it for one of the assignments she had in the course, but now it will just sit in her laptop. She looked through her laptop and saw an assignment she never got to submit. She read through it and sighed. It was about environmental poems. Stating that environmental poetry is to influence and force the reader to imagine and feel the words on the paper in relation to the environment.

I opened the book and let my eyes roam over the pages, drinking in the words and letting them transport me to another world. As I read, I felt myself becoming lost in the rhythms and patterns of the language. The words danced in my head, painting pictures and evoking emotions that I had forgotten existed. It was like a breath of fresh air, a reminder of the beauty and wonder that still existed in the world despite all the darkness and despair. As I read, I felt my mind starting to calm down, my worries and fears slowly dissipating like mist in the morning sun. The poetry had a way of soothing my soul, of reminding me that there was more to life than just the struggles and battles we faced ev

I took a sip from the glass of water on the left side of the table and then went back to writing again. To write poems is not just to write. You need to put magic in every word you'll write and you need to make sure that the readers will be in a different place with they read your pieces. Poetry is not just about rhymed words. It's about exposing the thoughts you can't speak. Writing is the only way I can let my self escape aside from its twin-reading.

The most astonishing thing was that every title tried to minister to me so much more that I was confused. There is a poem titled 'HOPE', there was 'VAGUE AS AIR', 'DEATH AND IT'S PEACE' and other incredible poems all written by Trevor. I read each poem and felt as if he was talking to me directly. His choice of words, sentence construction and presentation of life scenarios embedded in words is just beautiful. Now this guy was not just a devilishly handsome man with a great sense of humor but a writing god. Then I came across the piece I termed my best. I read it over and over again muttering each line. The poem is titled 'SPEAK TO YOURSELF' and it reads thus...

Knowing I picked a classic poetry book from my bookshelf, sat under my duvet and started to get lost in the poems that were written during war time 'My gentle one, with whom someday I shall be happy, we shall have our long walks and our quiet evenings which I dream of every night, when all of this is over, and I am back in your loving embrace. Think of me before you sleep as I'll think of you. My love, My Darling. Please do not fear, I will be home with you again, My beautiful love.' Reading poem after poem I could ignore the squealing and pounding of music beneath me, and I must have been reading for a while as when I peeked out of my window it was now dark.

It was gloriously, profoundly ridiculous. In my old life, every minute was accounted for. Reading poetry was considered inefficient, a weakness. Now, it’s a revolutionary act. My father’s schedule would have me in a meeting right now, desperately trying to save face. Instead, I’m listening to beautiful words that have nothing to do with contracts or quarterly reports. This is the true reward of ruin. The stillness. The slowness. The right to be inefficient. I closed my eyes, letting the deep timbre of Igor’s voice wash over me. He read about light, about distance, about the small, intense world two people create together against the indifference of the universe.

I murmured to myself, feeling the need to read I once again. “Day 1 of 41.” I started reading aloud. I do not care anymore if there may be someone who can hear me reciting a poem but no one can stop me. I am absolutely on the point of mu=y life that I have to read something for me to gain back the lessons I have lost, the metaphors I forgot to use and the feeling of having those butterflies inside my stomach. I just miss that point in my life and now I am giving myself a favour. Stars gone falling down