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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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III

by Guido Calvacanti,
translated by Ezra Pound

O Lady mine, doth not thy sight allege 
Him who hath set his hand upon my heart, 
When parched responses from my faint throat start 
And shudder for the terror of his edge? 
He was Amor, who since he found you, dwells 
Ever with me, and he was come from far; 
An archer is he as the Scythians are 
Whose only joy is killing someone else. 

My sobbing eyes are drawn upon his wrack, 
And such harsh sighs upon my heart he casteth 
That I depart from that sad me he wasteth, 
With Death drawn close upon my wavering track, 
Leading such tortures in his sombre train 
As, by all custom, wear out other men. 

Note:  A recitation can be found here.

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