Submit Your Poems
Get Your Premium Membership


See and share Beautiful Nature Photos and amazing photos of interesting places




Best Famous Thomas Lux Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Thomas Lux poems. This is a select list of the best famous Thomas Lux poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Thomas Lux poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of Thomas Lux poems.

Search for the best famous Thomas Lux poems, articles about Thomas Lux poems, poetry blogs, or anything else Thomas Lux poem related using the PoetrySoup search engine at the top of the page.

See also: Best Member Poems

Go Back

by Thomas Lux |

Henry Clays Mouth

 Senator, statesman, speaker of the House,
exceptional dancer, slim,
graceful, ugly.
Proclaimed, before most, slavery an evil, broker of elections (burned Jackson for Adams), took a pistol ball in the thigh in a duel, delayed, by forty years, with his compromises, the Civil War, gambler ("I have always paid peculiar homage to the fickle goddess"), boozehound, ladies' man -- which leads us to his mouth, which was huge, a long slash across his face, with which he ate and prodigiously drank, with which he modulated his melodic voice, with which he liked to kiss and kiss and kiss.
He said: "Kissing is like the presidency, it is not to be sought and not to be declined.
" A rival, one who wanted to kiss whom he was kissing, said: "The ample dimensions of his kissing apparatus enabled him to rest one side of it while the other was on active duty.
" It was written, if women had the vote, he would have been President, kissing everyone in sight, dancing on tables ("a grand Terpsichorean performance .
.
.
"), kissing everyone, sometimes two at once, kissing everyone, the almost-President of our people.


by Thomas Lux |

Plague Victims Catapulted Over Walls Into Besieged City

 Early germ
warfare.
The dead hurled this way look like wheels in the sky.
Look: there goes Larry the Shoemaker, barefoot, over the wall, and Mary Sausage Stuffer, see how she flies, and the Hatter twins, both at once, soar over the parapet, little Tommy's elbow bent as if in a salute, and his sister, Mathilde, she follows him, arms outstretched, through the air, just as she did on earth.


by Thomas Lux |

The Road That Runs Beside The River

 follows the river as it bends
along the valley floor,
going the way it must.
Where water goes, so goes the road, if there's room (not in a ravine, gorge), the river on your right or left.
Left is better: when you're driving, it's over your elbow across the road.
You see the current, which is what the river is: the river in the river, a thing sliding fast forward inside a thing sliding not so fast forward.
Driving with, beside, the river's flow is good.
Another pleasure, driving against it: it's the same river someone else will see somewhere else downstream -- same play, new theater, different set.
Wide, shallow, fairly fast, roundy-stone streambed, rocky-land river, it turns there or here -- the ground telling it so -- draining dull mountains to the north, migrating, feeding a few hard-fleshed fish who live in it.
One small sandbar splits the river, then it loops left, the road right, and the river's silver slips under the trees, into the forest, and over the sharp perpendicular edge of the earth.


by Thomas Lux |

Refrigerator 1957

 More like a vault -- you pull the handle out
and on the shelves: not a lot,
and what there is (a boiled potato
in a bag, a chicken carcass
under foil) looking dispirited,
drained, mugged.
This is not a place to go in hope or hunger.
But, just to the right of the middle of the middle door shelf, on fire, a lit-from-within red, heart red, sexual red, wet neon red, shining red in their liquid, exotic, aloof, slumming in such company: a jar of maraschino cherries.
Three-quarters full, fiery globes, like strippers at a church social.
Maraschino cherries, maraschino, the only foreign word I knew.
Not once did I see these cherries employed: not in a drink, nor on top of a glob of ice cream, or just pop one in your mouth.
Not once.
The same jar there through an entire childhood of dull dinners -- bald meat, pocked peas and, see above, boiled potatoes.
Maybe they came over from the old country, family heirlooms, or were status symbols bought with a piece of the first paycheck from a sweatshop, which beat the pig farm in Bohemia, handed down from my grandparents to my parents to be someday mine, then my child's? They were beautiful and, if I never ate one, it was because I knew it might be missed or because I knew it would not be replaced and because you do not eat that which rips your heart with joy.


by Thomas Lux |

Torn Shades

 How, in the first place, did
they get torn-pulled down hard
too many times: to hide a blow,
or sex, or a man
in stained pajamas? The tear blade-shaped,
serrated, in tatters.
And once, in a house flatside to a gas station, as snow fell at a speed and angle you could lean on, two small hands (a patch of throat, a whip of hair across her face)- two small hands parting a torn shade to welcome a wedge of gray sunlight into that room.


by Thomas Lux |

A Kiss

 One wave falling forward meets another wave falling
forward.
Well-water, hand-hauled, mineral, cool, could be a kiss, or pastures fiery green after rain, before the grazers.
The kiss -- like a shoal of fish whipped one way, another way, like the fever dreams of a million monkeys -- the kiss carry me -- closer than your carotid artery -- to you


by Thomas Lux |

I Love You Sweatheart

 A man risked his life to write the words.
A man hung upside down (an idiot friend holding his legs?) with spray paint to write the words on a girder fifty feet above a highway.
And his beloved, the next morning driving to work.
.
.
? His words are not (meant to be) so unique.
Does she recognize his handwriting? Did he hint to her at her doorstep the night before of "something special, darling, tomorrow"? And did he call her at work expecting her to faint with delight at his celebration of her, his passion, his risk? She will know I love her now, the world will know my love for her! A man risked his life to write the world.
Love is like this at the bone, we hope, love is like this, Sweatheart, all sore and dumb and dangerous, ignited, blessed--always, regardless, no exceptions, always in blazing matters like these: blessed.


by Thomas Lux |

A Library Of Skulls

 Shelves and stacks and shelves of skulls, a Dewey
Decimal number inked on each unfurrowed forehead.
Here's a skull who, before he lost his fleshy parts and lower bones, once walked beside a river (we're in the poetry section now) his head full of love and loneliness; and this smaller skull, in the sociology stacks, smiling (they're all smiling)—it's been empty a hundred years.
That slot across the temple? An ax blow that fractured her here.
Look at this one from the children's shelves, a baby, his fontanel a screaming mouth and this time no teeth, no smile.
Here's a few (history)—a murderer, and this one—see how close their eye sockets!—a thief, and here's a rack of torturers' skulls beneath which a longer row of the tortured, and look: generals' row, their epaulets on the shelves to each side of them.
Shelves and shelves, stacks stacked on top of stacks, floor above floor, this towering high-rise library of skulls, not another bone in the place and just now the squeak of a wheel on a cart piled high with skulls on their way back to shelves while in the next aisle a cart filling with those about to be loaned to the tall, broken-hearted man waiting at the desk, his library card face down before him.


by Thomas Lux |

A Little Tooth

 Your baby grows a tooth, then two,
and four, and five, then she wants some meat
directly from the bone.
It's all over: she'll learn some words, she'll fall in love with cretins, dolts, a sweet talker on his way to jail.
And you, your wife, get old, flyblown, and rue nothing.
You did, you loved, your feet are sore.
It's dusk.
Your daughter's tall.


by Thomas Lux |

Lucky

 One sweet pound of filet mignon
sizzles on the roadside.
Let's say a hundred yards below the buzzard.
The buzzard sees no cars or other buzzards between the mountain range due north and the horizon to the south and across the desert west and east no other creature's nose leads him to this feast.
The buzzard's eyes are built for this: he can see the filet's raw and he likes the sprig of parsley in this brown and dusty place.
No abdomens to open here before he eats.
No tearing, slashing with his beak, no offal-wading to pick and rip the softest parts.
He does not need to threaten or screech to keep the other buzzards from his meat.
He circles slowly down, not a flap, not a shiver in his wide wings, and lands before his dinner, an especially lucky buzzard, who bends his neck to pray, then eats.