Poetry To Read Novels & Stories

If all I need to do is read it, then that's not an issue," Alpha Abel said, his grin widening. "Great, I'll start on the poem," I replied, heading over to the table to start on the poems. Ten minutes later After I was done with the poem, I walked back to where Alpha Abel was standing with the others, I handed it to Alpha Abel, who took it with a curious glance. "Let's see what we have here," he said, scanning the verses. As he read, a smile spread across his face. "This is beautifully written, Adriana," he complimented, his eyes shining with appreciation

"I pray that this missive finds its way from tiny, mousey hands. To those who chance upon this plea, heed my desperate call, For trapped within these cryptic lines, lies a fate enthrall." As I read on, my heart grew heavy with each passing sentence, the weight of the writer's desperation pressing down upon me like a suffocating blanket. I knew this 'song and dance' as it were. Alpha Gonzales had thought me how to read and in the process had used a litany of poems to do so. This was a poem - a rather well known one.

Evelyn answered with trembling fingers. “Hello?” And from the other end, came a voice so familiar—low, careful, filled with longing: “May I read your poem again… this time, with you listening?”

Then I remember I don’t bowl. Scott Dear Sarah, I’ve done it. I’m reading a poem that I know I should have read years ago, but it’s just so damn long. There’s a bit of Italian at the beginning that basically translates to, “Listen up,” and then there’s this: Let us go then, you and I, When the evening is spread out against the sky Like a patient etherized upon a table; Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets, The muttering retreats

“She’s ready. She’s just torturing me on purpose. She’s already your daughter.” He chuckles low. “Fair.” He reaches for the book on the coffee table. It’s old, leather-bound, the pages yellowed. Russian poetry. Pushkin, Akhmatova, some Tsvetaeva. He’s been reading it to my belly every evening for the last two weeks. Says it’s tradition, his mom used to read poetry to him when he was little, in Russian, and he wants Sandra to hear it too. Before she’s even born. He opens to a marked page. Clears his throat.

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.

This was what contentment felt like. This was what having your entire world contained in your arms felt like. “What are you reading?” I asked, noting the way she relaxed completely against me, trusting me to hold her, to keep her safe. “Poetry. Some old collection I found in the back corner.” “Any good?” “Some of it. Though most of it is very dramatic. Lots of tortured souls and unrequited love.” “Sounds depressing.” “A little. But some of the love poems are beautiful. Listen to this one.” She opened the book and began to read in that soft, musical voice that never failed to capture my complete attention.

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

Brianna suddenly remembered poetry she once had read in a book: O my Luve is like a red, red rose That’s newly sprung in June; O my Luve is like the melody That’s sweetly played in tune. So fair art thou, my bonnie lass, So deep in love am I; And I will love thee still, my dear, Till a’ the seas gang dry. Till a’ the seas gang dry, my dear, And the rocks melt wi’ the sun; I will love thee still, my dear, While the sands o’ life shall run. And fare thee weel, my only love! And fare thee weel awhile! And I will come again, my love,

He rushed, the sentence hanging in the air before he cut through it. "What Wordsworth poem did you want to read?" His voice much more gentle and slow. She took a moment to respond, her hands twitching back to life as she sucked in a deep breath as though she was waking up. "Ode to Imitations of Immortality." She spoke, her voice dry. She slowly turned and sat down in the chair next to the fireplace, the bright amber flames illuminating her face. He closed his book and put it back on the bookshelf before returning to the couch and leaning his head on his hand.