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As the resident poet at EcoHealth Alliance, 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 M√ľnchner Volkshochschule and lead the Amerikahaus Literary Circle.

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Song of Myself

by Walt Whitman

9


The big doors of the country barn stand open and ready, 
The dried grass of the harvest-time loads the slow-drawn wagon, 
The clear light plays on the brown gray and green intertinged, 
The armfuls are pack’d to the sagging mow. 


I am there, I help, I came stretch’d atop of the load, 
I felt its soft jolts, one leg reclined on the other, 
I jump from the cross-beams and seize the clover and timothy, 
And roll head over heels and tangle my hair full of wisps.

Note:  A recitation can be found here.

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