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As the resident artist at EcoHealth, I pen verse these days inspired by the specter of future pandemics; for my dissertation at Amerika-Institut of LMU München, where I edit a weekly circular on poetry, I'm anatomizing the prosody of E. A. Robinson's sonnets—I also teach English, tutor composition, and lead a literary circle.

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Shadrach O'Leary


  by E. A. Robinson

  O’Leary was a poet—for a while:
  He sang of many ladies frail and fair,
  The rolling glory of their golden hair,
  And emperors extinguished with a smile.
  They foiled his years with many an ancient wile,
  And if they limped, O’Leary didn’t care:
  He turned them loose and had them everywhere,
  Undoing saints and senates with their guile.

  But this was not the end. A year ago
  I met him—and to meet was to admire:
  Forgotten were the ladies and the lyre,
  And the small, ink-fed Eros of his dream.
  By questioning I found a man to know—
  A failure spared, a Shadrach of the Gleam.

Note:  A recitation can be heard here.

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