Reading Poetry Novels & Stories

“Then what’s the point.” That made me pause. Because that question wasn’t even sarcastic. It was genuinely him trying to understand. So I sat up a little, book forgotten for the moment. “Poetry makes things deeper than plain boring words,” I said slowly, choosing it carefully. “It’s like asking why an art painting tells a story instead of just writing the story underneath it. It’s not just about information. It’s about feeling it.” He stared at me for a second. Then leaned forward slightly. “You don’t have to go all diplomatic,” he said. “Just say what you want to say.” I narrowed my eyes at him. “I did.”

[ K A R A ] I spent the entire night reading and rereading Ryder's notes over and over again. His poems were honest and raw. He wrote so beautifully. I never would have imagined the same mouth that said all those dirty jokes could write such romantic things. And okay, I don't mean to sound narcissistic, but are these poems written about me? Am I… ‘K’?

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.

"Let's read poetry this evening. The words are so hauntingly beautiful and you will make them just sing off of the page. Here try this." Anders let his eyes wander across the page and read the words to himself, but then the cloaked figure said to him, "Outloud, Anders. I want to hear you read the beautiful words outloud." He read each word with clarity, thinking 'This is such a haunting poem.' "Wind and willow, come take me back to where the worlds meet, and bring me fractured to the sea, let my soul carry me to places and shores where my eyes will never see.

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.

River’s POV The first reading was held at a bookstore in Silver Lake. Intimate. Maybe thirty people. Chairs packed tight between poetry shelves and memoir displays. I wasn’t nervous. I’d done bigger crowds. Harder rooms. But this wasn’t about numbers. It was about her. And I didn’t know how to prepare for that. Melinda’s POV They wore a gray sweater and black jeans. Simple. They didn’t read from the courtroom chapter. Didn’t pick the pages about betrayal or erasure.

My heart started to beat fast in my chest. How many times had she seen us at our worst? How much had we hurt her without even realizing it? Feeling overwhelmed, I turned to the next page and found a short poem scribbled in her neat handwriting. It was about stars, rivers, and memories. Reading her words, I felt a sense of peace and calm wash over me. It was as if Val was speaking to me through her poetry, reminding me of the beauty and wonder of life.

It was a heartfelt ode to white tulips, their delicate petals symbolizing purity and new beginnings. I couldn't help but be captivated by the imagery woven into the verses, each line resonating with a sense of hope and renewal. It was as if the poem had been written just for me, a reminder that even in the darkest of times, there was always the promise of a fresh start. Lost in the beauty of the words, I barely noticed as the reader returned to my station, a curious expression on her face. "Is everything okay?" she asked, her concern evident in her voice.

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?"