Reading Poetry Novels & Stories

he ‘reminded’ me. "That, too." I laughed. Then I remembered his poem. "What's the meaning of that poem you sent?" "What did it mean to you?" "It meant nothing.” His hands stilled for a beat, and he sounded wounded as he said, "Then it means nothing." "I didn't mean it like that. It's just…" I paused, being sure to choose my words carefully. The man could be really sensitive at times. "Poetry’s mind-screwing. It's not straightforward and it never means what you think it means. Always something more profound. Requiring you read it over and over, disassembling and deciphering. I've never been a fan."

I continued, keeping my eyes fixed on my pale, skinny fingers clutched around my knees, “and goes back to reading. But then there’s a tap on his window, and a raven flies in. He asks it questions, and it only answers with one word: ‘nevermore.’ He asks it about Lenore, but still its reply remains the same. “The man asks the raven if he will join Lenore in heaven when he dies, if their souls will be joined once more. At the raven’s answer – you guessed it, ‘nevermore’ – the man says, well, ‘be that our word of parting’ – he wants it to leave. It is a reminder of death, yet it sits, unmoving, watching him as he dissolves further into madness. Death remains with him, as it does with us all.” “G

"Today will be a truly inspiring day. I'll be having the privilege of witnessing incredible performances that celebrate cultures from around the world." He pauses, scanning the attentive faces before him. "I want to share something personal with you all," Ryan continues. "Consider it an inauguration. I have always had a passion for poetry. It's a form of expression that allows me to delve into emotions and stories in a way that connects deeply with others." Whispers of interceptions ripple through the audience as Ryan opens up, his words genuine and heartfelt. "Writing poetry has been a source of solace and inspiration for me. Today, I'd like to share a poem I wrote, inspired by moments of r

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.

Or maybe, she felt the line was worth giving a trial. “If you don't take caution, poetry will rot your brain. What do you think of things like this?” He peered at the paper again. “You really need to teach these new poets how to write poetry. Of course, not for free." He hefted another scrambled piece of paper in his hand with forced cheer. This one had almost nothing written on it except a painting of a tiny blue flower and a little girl in the field. She watched him as he continued to read the scrambled papers one after the other like an editor trying to make sense of an author's draft.

"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.

DeeDee said, clasping her hands to her chest. Ryden twitched next to me and I fought the urge to look at him, because I was pretty certain I would start laughing and not stop if I saw the look on his face. It was obvious enough the poem was about him, wasn’t it? “Shouldn’t poems rhyme?” I muttered. Stu glanced at me, and the pity in his face made me want to deck him. But I didn’t. “It’s so cliché for poems to rhyme nowadays,” he said eagerly.

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.”

You should see hers. He reads it out, in a voice worthy of Television, as though he were standing before an audience. The poet can be poem-less. The writer, word-less And the warrior sword-less. With you, I am not lovel— "Okay, " I say "that's enough for one day.".

I propped myself against the headboard, switched on the small bedside lamp, and opened the first letter again. His words hit differently in the dark, with no other sound but my own breathing. …I think about the night you read Neruda aloud in the dark and I understood, for the first time, what poetry was actually for. I closed my eyes and tried to picture it: a woman, Clara, soft voice, reading love poems to a man who listened like the words were oxygen. I imagined Noah’s face in low light, the way his eyes would have tracked her mouth, the way his hand might have rested on her thigh, thumb stroking absently while she spoke of bodies and longing.