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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.


The triple Foole.

by John Donne

  I Am two fooles, I know,
For loving, and for saying so
  In whining Poëtry;
But where's that wiseman, that would not be I,
  If she would not deny?
Then as th'earths inward narrow crooked lanes
Do purge sea waters fretfull salt away,
  I thought, if I could draw my paines,
Through Rimes vexation, I should them allay,
Griefe brought to numbers cannot be so fierce,
For, he tames it, that fetters it in verse.

  But when I have done so,
Some man, his art and voice to show,
  Doth Set and sing my paine,
And, by delighting many, frees againe
  Griefe, which verse did restraine.
To Love, and Griefe tribute of Verse belongs,
But not of such as pleases when'tis read,
  Both are increased by such songs:
For both their triumphs so are published,
And I, which was two fooles, do so grow three;
Who are a little wise, the best fooles be.

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