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Thanks to a residency at EcoHealth, my verse these days finds inspiration in the specter of future pandemics; for my dissertation at LMU München, where I tutor composition and edit a poetry weekly, I'm anatomizing the prosody of E. A. Robinson's sonnets—I also teach at MVHS and lead the Amerikahaus Literary Circle.

20150916

XVIII

by John Milton


On the Late Massacre in Piedmont
Avenge, O Lord, thy slaughter'd saints, whose bones 
       Lie scatter'd on the Alpine mountains cold, 
       Ev'n them who kept thy truth so pure of old, 
       When all our fathers worshipp'd stocks and stones; 
Forget not: in thy book record their groans 
       Who were thy sheep and in their ancient fold 
       Slain by the bloody Piemontese that roll'd 
       Mother with infant down the rocks. Their moans 
The vales redoubl'd to the hills, and they 
       To Heav'n. Their martyr'd blood and ashes sow 
       O'er all th' Italian fields where still doth sway 
The triple tyrant; that from these may grow 
       A hundred-fold, who having learnt thy way 
Early may fly the Babylonian woe.

Note:  A recitation can be found here.

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