As the resident poet at EcoHealth, my verse finds inspiration these days in the specter of future pandemics. For my dissertation at LMU's Amerika-Institut, I'm anatomizing the poetics (especially the prosody) of E. A. Robinson's sonnets. I also teach at Münchner Volkshochschule and lead the Amerikahaus Literary Circle.
Si sola es, nulla es Though you, Diana-like, have liv'd still chaste, Yet must you not (fair) die a maid at last: The roses on your cheeks were never made To bless the eye alone, and so to fade; Nor had the cherries on your lips their being, To please no other sense than that of seeing: You were not made to look on, though that be A bliss too great for poor mortality: In that alone those rarer parts you have, To better uses sure wise nature gave Than that you put them to; to love, to wed, For Hymen's rights, and for the marriage-bed You were ordain'd, and not to lie alone; One is no number, till that two be one. To keep a maidenhead but till fifteen, Is worse than murder, and a greater sin Than to have lost it in the lawful sheets With one that should want skill to reap those sweets: But not to lose 't at all—by Venus, this, And by her son, inexpiable is; And should each female guilty be o' th' crime, The world should have its end before its time. Note: A recitation can be heard here.