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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 M√ľnchner Volkshochschule and lead the Amerikahaus Literary Circle.

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Verlaine

by Edwin Arlington Robinson

Why do you dig like long-clawed scavengers
To touch the covered corpse of him that fled
The uplands for the fens, and rioted
Like a sick satyr with doom's worshippers?
Come! let the grass grow there; and leave his verse
To tell the story of the life he led.
Let the man go:  let the dead flesh be dead,
And let the worms be its biographers.

Song sloughs away the sin to find redress
In art's complete remembrance:  nothing clings
For long but laurel to the stricken brow
That felt the Muse's finger; nothing less
Than hell's fulfillment of the end of things
Can blot the star that shines on Paris now.

Note:  A recitation can be heard here.

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