About Me

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As the resident poet at EcoHealth Alliance, my verse finds inspiration these days in the spectre of global pandemics. At LMU Munich's Amerika-Institut, where I tutor composition and poetics, I'm anatomizing the sonnets of E. A. Robinson for my dissertation. I also teach at Münchner Volkshochschule and Amerikahaus.

20151126

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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