Poetry To Read Novels & Stories

“For something. I don’t know what yet.” “You’re welcome to it.” They moved along the shelf. The city outside had settled into its late evening quiet. At one point a group passed on the pavement, laughing, audible through the glass before the sound faded. At the poetry section Delphine stopped. “Do you read poetry?” she said. “I live in a bookshop,” Sera said. “That’s not an answer.” “I read it the way I listen to music. Not to extract meaning. To be inside the sound of it.”

I clicked on the chat, and my eyes widened as I read through the messages. "Hi Emily," Caspian's message read. "I wanted to reach out to you about my wife's poetry. She has a remarkable talent and a collection of pieces that she's eager to share with the world. I'd love for you to consider publishing her work. Would you be open to reviewing her poems? I'd be grateful if you could provide her with an opportunity to showcase her art. Thank you for your time and consideration." I felt a lump form in my throat as I read the message. Caspian was actually advocating for me, pushing for my poetry to be published.

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.

"Anything else you'd like to eat?" "Wait, are you asking me to order? You're so nice. Uh, how about spicy chicken, pickled fish, braised lamb, beer-braised duck?" "I can eat any of those. I'm not picky," I replied. He pressed a fist to his lips, clearly trying to stifle his laughter. His deep, hoarse voice carried a hint of amusement. "Alright." Forty minutes later, I sat at the dining table, drooling over the spread of dishes in front of me.

I lie here awake but I’m not one to pray, everything’s changed but now I’m okay. I’m rattled this time, can someone lift my chin, keep my head above water before I’m too deep in. I’ve never had problems, where do I begin, but it’s not a problem because I’m just being human.’ I had always liked poetry and this particular one actually got to me because I felt I could relate to it in a weird kind of way. “Poetry is light, poetry is love. That’s a poem written by an anonymous poet on i*******m. Pstar7….”

She sat down again, with a meaningful space between us which got me to smile lightly, of course, she wasn't aware of my smile, because her face was buried in the book she was not reading, she was just avoiding my eyes. "Back to the poem; Poem for My Love by June Jordan." I read out the title of the poem and its poet before handing the script back to Adrian. "Read out the poem Miss Williams." She took it from me and began reading, "How do we come to be here next to each other in the night Where the stars that show us our love are inevitable Outside the leaves flame usual in darkness In the rain Falls cool and blessed on the holy flesh." She raised her head to glance at me, "That's all Dr Raph

A light too blinding, a fire too high, Yet I kneel, yet I pray, yet I burn alive. Flesh and bone, yet something more, A voice that binds, a touch ignored. Untouchable fate, unshaken throne, And yet I long to call you my own. I exhaled through my nose again, rubbing my temple. Of course, it's wonderful. I'd never read poetry so well written. Of fucking course. I refolded the paper and tucked it back where I found it. I wasn't mad. I wasn't even surprised. Just... I don't know.

“You want to read it?” “Not out loud,” I answer. He laughs but doesn’t force me to read out loud. My breath hitches as I read under my breath. Heat builds between my legs as the lyrics worm their way into my heart and core. It’s a sensual poem. About me. About us. Our first night together. At the chorus, my hand goes over my mouth. I flick a careful gaze his way and his blues capture mine. “Cal, they will know.” “How will they know?”

Because he was right and because it was December fifth and because nothing was on fire and nobody was watching the gate and the garden was outside and the Sicilian poet was on the shelf and the watch was on the nightstand and the harbor building had her father's name above the entrance and there was nothing to do today except be here. "Fine," she said. "You make lunch." "Yes," he said. "And I read," she said. "Yes," he said. "And we do nothing operational," she said. "For the entire day," he said. "For the entire day," she confirmed. She looked at the garden one more time. Then she went to find the poet. She read until ten. Page forty-two and then forward. Pages she had not read before. The

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.”