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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 M√ľnchen, 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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Sonnet to the Reader

by K. Soowthern
from Sonnets to his mystresse Diana, 1584

Thou find'st not heere, neither the furious alarmes,
Of the pride of Spaine, or subtilnes of France:
Nor of the rude English, or mutine Almans:
Nor neither of Naples, noble men of armes.
No, an Infant, and that yet surmounteth Knights:
Hath both vanquished me, and also my Muse,
And were it not: this is a lawfull excuse.
If thou hearst not the report, of their great fights,
Thou shalt see no death of any valiant soldier,
And yet I sing the beauty of a fierce warrier.
And amore alone I must strike on my Leer,
And but Eroto I knowe no other Muse.
And harke all you that are lyke us amourous.
And you that are not, goe read some otherwhere.


Note:  A recitation can be heard here.

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