Readable Poetry Novelas e Histórias

Jasper said thoughtfully. "Sounds good. I remember a famous poem 'Far From The Madding City'. The poem was about arriving at a paradise after passing through a narrow cave. The people there grew their own crops and lived a peaceful life." "How could you still remember these things?" Jasper was curious. He remembered that he had read this when he was a child, but he had almost forgotten all of it. "I like these romantic poems, especially the ones by Robert Frost, Emily Dickinson, and Elizabeth Barrett Browning," Stella chatted casually.

'The Iridescent Stars; mmh… Typical of tonight. Nneoma read the poem, her voice smooth and steady. I gaze up the night sky What meet my gaze? Myriads of shinning stars They shine like iridescent diamonds Diamonds of sublime beauty They twinkle and shine, twinkle and shine. Giving light to all nocturnal creatures The brilliant stars tell me Tales of life yonder They tell me of great meadows With yew trees, yew trees with amber Fruits, of azure rivers ever flowing Of golden fishes ever swimming

The poem went this way, Do not stand at my grave and weep, I am not there; I did not sleep. I am a thousand winds that blow, I am the diamond glints on snow. I am the sun on ripened grain, I am the gentle autumn rain. When you awaken in the morning's hush, I am the swift uprising rush Oh quiet birds in circled flight. I am the soft stars that shine at night. Do not stand at my grave and cry, I am not there; I did not die.

"What do you enjoy reading, Lord Pembroke?" "Well" He paused to think as they both studied the titles stacked neatly on the shelves. "I like a bit of everything. It's good to be well versed in many things, but I suppose I like a bit of poetry most, aside from novels." "Poetry?" Miss Beaumont's blue-gray eyes grew wide. "Most gentlemen of my acquaintance have no patience for poetry." "A pity for them. Poetry is a window to a person's soul. With just a few words, a great writer can move mountains. I read it when I need to find a place of strength." He realized he was revealing far more of himself to this woman than he had intended to.

for John Ashbery The literary life is never easy, you saw it first in the convex mirror, its spreading tension the surface of claw-prints in silver. I then tried to learn how to read humour and surprise disguised as a shadow pretending to have never seen alchemy winnow through thistles down the dark alleys of your city parks. I, the wanderer learning how to drift past shoe factories and never pay attention to the still-chiming ways of looking at a lamppost, would like to say, You are

The world was layered with little signs of life returning—mine included. At home, I lit a candle and curled onto the couch with the poetry book in my lap. I read until my eyes blurred, until the words became whispers in my head. I didn’t know who A. Renner was—only what he was: steady, kind, poetic in a way that felt rare. He hadn’t made a move yet. Hadn’t stepped into the light. But his presence was there. A steady beat beneath the noise. Unseen, but deeply felt.

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.”

Adrian read aloud from a well-loved paperback filled with poems she discovered beneath forgotten journals. The poems were archaic, formal in tone, yet they resonated profoundly with both of them. Occasionally, Adrian would pause—not to turn the page, but to simply gaze at her. There was no calculation in his look, no worries—only awe and a quiet sense of gratitude. She remained silent, intertwining her fingers with his, allowing the lines of the poems to express what needed no words. As evening approached, the house glowed once more. The sun sank low in the sky, casting warm golden rays through the nursery windows. Dust motes spun lazily in the air, catching the light like the tiny constella

To her dismay, Jane found herself walking down the hall to English with Lucy by her side, still talking, talking, talking. "I didn't know you were such a big reader, Jane," Lucy said, smiling at her. "I guess because your book-report books are always so short. But length isn't what matters in a book. I love a lot of short books, too. Just look at poetry. A poem can be any length. There are millions of wonderful poems that are only a few lines long. Like Emily Dickinson's poems. She can say more in two lines than most people can say in a hundred pages. What part are you up to in A Tale of Two Cities?"

Something about that landed in the center of my chest and stayed there. We went around the circle. Marcus read three stanzas of a poem about his grandmother's kitchen that was so quietly devastating it made the room go still. Priya read the opening of something that felt like literary fiction — a girl at an airport, leaving somewhere she couldn't name. A boy named Darius read a rap verse he'd been working on, rhythmic and sharp and funny in all the right places. The other two read shorter things — a flash fiction piece, a personal essay about a younger brother. Then it was my turn.