Child Made of Sand: Poemsby Thomas Lux
In Child Made of Sand, Kingsley Tufts–winner Thomas Lux demonstrates a restless energy to explore new territory while confirming his place in the pantheon of contemporary American poetry.See more details below
In Child Made of Sand, Kingsley Tufts–winner Thomas Lux demonstrates a restless energy to explore new territory while confirming his place in the pantheon of contemporary American poetry.
- Houghton Mifflin Harcourt
- Publication date:
- Product dimensions:
- 6.00(w) x 9.10(h) x 0.70(d)
Read an Excerpt
The Moths Who Come in the Night to Drink Our Tears
always leave quenched,
though they’re drinking,
in composition, seawater,
which does not make them insane as it does parched humans when we drink it, even with our big, big bodies.
If you knew a leper’s tears do not contain the bacillus leprae,
would you let him weep on your chest?
Let the moths come, let the sandwoman and -man come,
let Morpheus and Dreamadum come unto me, and my beloveds,
let the moths come and drink of the disburdening waters.
—César Vallejo, Arago Clinic, Paris, Holy Friday,
April 15, 1938
It was you, César, they killed to the base of your forefinger, you.
Certainly they shot Pedro Rojas too.
No doubt Juana Vásquez was killed.
The killers, poor also, were skilled.
And Emilio, they shot him in the back of the neck after they made him kneel amid the wreck of his grandmother’s house—they beat but did not kill her. The people, their hands and feet
(A cripple sleeps with his foot on his shoulder.
Shall I later talk about Picasso, of all people?),
these are the people you wrote for, César,
though your later poems, no longer lighted by the laser of your homeland, of Heraldos Negros or Trilce, were real enough for exile but not as true, licit.
Socialist realism, the aesthetic was called,
poetry force-marched—to diminish, equally, all.
It was not right for your mind and betrayed your heart.
Your countrymen and -women should bring you home, César.
Entombed in France is good enough for some,
but Peru should bring Peru’s great poet home.
Jebus don’t love me, oh.
Oh Jebus don’t love me, no.
He never because I too slow.
The moon do love me, but it fall,
plash, way there in ocean where I see them small fishes who be, who be a ton
of teeth in my big eyes. So,
Jebus, let this tiny haminal go,
because I don’t love you neither, no.
and post it to your social network
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