This is a forum to talk about the world of poetry. Seek advice on submitting your poetry for publication. Offer a lesson on enjambement. Spread the news of a new poet laureate.
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When the soul lies down in that grass, the world is too full to talk about. The breeze at dawn has secrets to tell you. You must ask for what you really want. People are going back and forth across the doorsill where the two worlds touch. The door is round and open. You are commenting using your WordPress. You are commenting using your Google account. You are commenting using your Twitter account.
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To share your own favorite, email hello theatlantic. And to read a daily poem from the Atlantic archives, go here. Poetry, like music, takes me back to the time when I first heard that piece. The priest at the Episcopal campus ministry, who became my mentor, would substitute a Rumi poem for a biblical reading or use it in one of his sermons. You can read it in full here.
Read by Houman Pourmehdi. When I see your face, the stones start spinning! You appear; all studying wanders. I lose my place. You breathe; new shapes appear, and the music of a desire as widespread as Spring begins to move like a great wagon. Drive slowly. Some of us walking alongside are lame! Today, like every other day, we wake up empty and frightened.