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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.



Bright Star, would I were steadfast as thou art— 
Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night, 
And watching, with eternal lids apart, 
Like Nature's patient sleepless Eremite, 
The moving waters at their priest-like task        
Of pure ablution round earth's human shores, 
Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask 
Of snow upon the mountains and the moors— 
No—yet still steadfast, still unchangeable, 
Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast,  
To feel for ever its soft fall and swell, 
Awake for ever in a sweet unrest, 
  Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath, 
  And so live ever—or else swoon to death.

John Keats

Note:  A recitation can be heard here.

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