Child Made of Sand: Poems

Child Made of Sand: Poems

by Thomas Lux
     
 

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Reader’s familiar with Thomas Lux’s quick-witted images ("Language without simile is like a lung/ without air") and his rambunctious, Cirque-Du-Soleil-like imagination ("The Under-Appreciated Pontooniers") will find in his new collection, Child Made of Sand, not only the signature funny, provocative, and poignant super-surrealism that has made

Overview

Reader’s familiar with Thomas Lux’s quick-witted images ("Language without simile is like a lung/ without air") and his rambunctious, Cirque-Du-Soleil-like imagination ("The Under-Appreciated Pontooniers") will find in his new collection, Child Made of Sand, not only the signature funny, provocative, and poignant super-surrealism that has made him, along with Charles Simic, James Tate, and Dean Young, one of America’s most inventive and humane poets, but they will also find in a surprising series of homages, elegies, rants, and autobiographical poems a new register of language in which time and mortality echo and reverberate in quieter notes. In "West Shining Tree," we can hear this shift in register when he asks: "I’ll head dead West and ask of all I see:/ Which is the way, the long or the short way,/ to the West Shining Tree?"

Editorial Reviews

Library Journal
Most of these free-verse poems evolve from questions or implied questions. Take "Where are the shoelaces of yesteryear, Gérard?"—the first line of "Rue de la Vieille Lanterne," written for the French poet Gérard de Nerval: although the question seems light, even flippant, the poem turns out to be about suicide and is dark indeed. Like much of the work in this 12th collection from Kingsley Tufts Award winner Lux (Split Horizons), this poem is an uneasy blend of sarcasm, pseudo-joviality, and noir. There are several allusions to other poets in the collection, including Robert Frost and William Blake, but overall the poems have a Sylvia Plath-like feel. They don't share in Plath's extraordinary imagery, though, so much as they inhabit her hard edges. The autobiographical poems tend to become wrapped in memories whose power never quite comes across. The strongest poems get their energy from figures of sound and wordplay—generally puns, consonance, and assonance. VERDICT The poems are not always successful, but when they work, they have an ironic edge that builds gradually and by suggestion until the poet pulls the rug out from under the reader with a final line whose mordant humor explodes in a light show that's anything but light.—Diane Scharper, Towson Univ., Maryland

Product Details

ISBN-13:
9780547581019
Publisher:
Houghton Mifflin Harcourt
Publication date:
11/27/2012
Sold by:
Houghton Mifflin Harcourt
Format:
NOOK Book
Pages:
96
File size:
315 KB

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.

Elegy

—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.


Madsong

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.


 

Meet the Author

THOMAS LUX holds the Bourne Chair in Poetry and is the director of the McEver Visiting Writers Program at Georgia Institute of Technology. He has been awarded three NEA grants and the Kingsley Tufts Award and is a former Guggenheim Fellow. He lives in Atlanta.

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