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Thomas Lux is humorous, edgy, and ever surprising in The Cradle Place, his tenth collection of verse. These fifty-two poems question language and intention and the sometimes untidy connections between the human and natural worlds. Lux has long been an outspoken advocate for the relevance of poetry in American culture, and his voice is urgent and unrelentingly evocative. As Sven Birkerts has noted, “Lux may be ...
Thomas Lux is humorous, edgy, and ever surprising in The Cradle Place, his tenth collection of verse. These fifty-two poems question language and intention and the sometimes untidy connections between the human and natural worlds. Lux has long been an outspoken advocate for the relevance of poetry in American culture, and his voice is urgent and unrelentingly evocative. As Sven Birkerts has noted, “Lux may be one of the poets on whom the future of the genre depends.”
“A book full of arresting images . . . The natural world, as it appears here, is at first lovely . . . but turns out dangerously vanquished . . . Not since Plath has hysteria looked this kissable." San Francisco Chronicle
“Lux has a gift for the swiftly turned expression . . . Such immediacy and quirkiness will hold a reader." Poetry
"Readers will be mesmerized." Poetry Book of the Year, Library Journal
THOMAS LUX holds the Bourne Chair in Poetry and is director of the McEver Visiting Writers Program at the 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.
THE LATE AMBASSADORIAL LIGHT Light reaches through a leaf and that light, diminished, passes through another leaf, and another, down to the lawn beneath.
Green, green, the high grass shivers.
Water over a stone, and bees, bees around the flowers, deep-tiered beds of them, yellows and golds and reds.
Saw-blade ferns feather in the breeze.
And, just as a cloud’s corner catches the sun, a tiny glint in the garden—the milk of a broken stalk? A lion’s tooth?
Or might that be the delicate labia of an orchid?
SAY YOU’RE BREATHING just as you do every day, in and out, in and out, and in each breath: one tick of a shaving from a bat’s eyelash, an invisible sliver of a body mite who lived near Caligula’s shin, diamond dust (we each inhale a carat in a lifetime), a speck of scurf from the Third Dynasty (that of the abundant imbeciles), one sulfurous grain from the smoke of a mortar round, a mote of marrow from a bone poking through a shallow grave, a whiff from a mummy grinder caught in a Sahara wind, most of the Sahara itself, inhaled in Greenland, sweat dried to crystal on your father’s lip and lifted to the sky before you were born—all, all, a galaxy of fragments floating around you every day, inhaled every day, happy to rest in your lungs until they are dust again and again risen.
DRY BITE When the krait strikes but does not loose his venom: dry bite. What makes the snake choose not to kill you? Not Please, not I didn’t mean to step on you. He may be fresh out: struck recently something else. But: if he withholds his poison, when does he do so and why?
Can he tell you are harmless to him?
He can’t swallow you, so why kill you?
There’s no use asking the krait: he’s deaf.
In that chemical, that split-billionth of a second, he decides and the little valve of his venom sac stays shut or opens wide.
Dry, oh dry, dry bite—lucky the day you began to wear the krait’s snake-eyed mark on your wrist and you walked down the mountain into the valley of that which remains of your life.
Copyright © 2004 by Thomas Lux. Reprinted by permission of Houghton Mifflin Company.
|The Late Ambassadorial Light||3|
|Say You're Breathing||4|
|Horse Bleeding to Death at Full Gallop||6|
|Debate Regarding the Permissibility of Eating Mermaids||7|
|The Professor of Ants||8|
|Ten Years Hard Labor on a Guano Island||10|
|Family Photo Around Xmas Tree||11|
|Portrait of X[III]||13|
|Three Vials of Maggots||14|
|Uncle Dung Beetle||15|
|Can Tie Shoes But Won't||17|
|The American Fancy Rat and Mouse Association||18|
|To Help the Monkey Cross the River||19|
|The Devil's Beef Tub||20|
|Boatloads of Mummies||21|
|Thus, He Spoke His Quietus||22|
|The Magna Chamber||23|
|Birds Nailed to Trees||24|
|Guide for the Perpetually Perplexed||27|
|If One Can Be Seen||28|
|The Year the Locust Hath Eaten||29|
|Burned Forests ad Horses' Bones||30|
|Letter to Walt Whitman from a Soldier He Nursed in Armory Square Hospital, Washington, D.C., 1866||32|
|To Plow and Plant the Seashore||37|
|National Impalement Statistics||40|
|174517: Primo Levi, an Elegy||42|
|With Maeterlinck's Great Book||44|
|The Chief Attendant of the Napkin||46|
|The Mountains in the River on the Way to the Sea||48|
|Reject What Confuses You||49|
|Flies So Thick Above the Corpses in the Rubble, the Soldiers Must Use Flamethrowers to Pass Through||50|
|The Ice Worm's Life||51|
|I Will Please, Said the Placebo||53|
|Hospitality and Revenge||54|
|From the High Ground||55|
|Can't Sleep the Clowns Will Eat Me||59|