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As the resident poet at EcoHealth, my verse finds inspiration these days in the spectre of future pandemics. For my dissertation at LMU's Amerika-Institut, I'm anatomizing the poetics of E. A. Robinson's sonnets. I also teach English at Münchner Volkshochschule and lead the Amerikahaus Literary Circle.

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Song of Myself

by Walt Whitman

12

The butcher-boy puts off his killing-clothes, or sharpens his
     knife at the stall in the market,
I loiter enjoying his repartee and his shuffle and break-down.


Blacksmiths with grimed and hairy chests environ the anvil,
Each has his main-sledge, they are all out, there is a great
     heat in the fire.


From the cinder-strew'd threshold I follow their movements,
The lithe sheer of their waists plays even with their massive
     arms,
Overhand the hammers swing, overhand so slow, overhand
     so sure,
They do not hasten, each man hits in his place.


Note:  A recitation can be heard here.

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