About Me

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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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I thought once how Theocritus had sung 
Of the sweet years, the dear and wished for years, 
Who each one in a gracious hand appears 
To bear a gift for mortals, old or young: 
And, as I mused it in his antique tongue, 
I saw, in gradual vision through my tears, 
The sweet, sad years, the melancholy years, 
Those of my own life, who by turns had flung 
A shadow across me.  Straightway I was 'ware, 
So weeping, how a mystic Shape did move 
Behind me, and drew me backward by the hair; 
And a voice said in mastery, while I strove: 
"Guess now who holds thee?" — "Death," I said. But there
The silver answer rang:  "Not Death, but Love."

Elizabeth Barrett-Browning
Sonnets from the Portuguese

Note:  A recitation can be heard here.

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