Biography of Thomas Lux
Thomas Lux (born December 10, 1946) is an American poet that holds the Margaret T. and Henry C. Bourne, Jr. Chair in Poetry at the Georgia Institute of Technology and runs Georgia Tech's "Poetry at Tech" program.
Thomas Lux was born in Northampton, Massachusetts, son of a milkman and a Sears & Roebuck switchboard operator, neither of whom graduated from high school. Lux was raised in Massachusetts on a dairy farm. He was, according to those who knew him in high school, very good at baseball, basketball and golf. Classmates also recall that he had a "terrific sense of humor."
He graduated from Emerson College in Boston, where he was also poet in residence from 1970–1975. His first book—Memory's Handgrenade—was published shortly after.
Since 1975, Lux has been a member of the writing faculty at Sarah Lawrence College. Lux is also a core faculty member of the Warren Wilson M.F.A. Program for Writers. In 1996 he was a visiting professor at University of California, Irvine. A former Guggenheim Fellow and three times a recipient of grants from the National Endowment for the Arts, Lux received, in 1995, the $50,000 Kingsley Tufts Poetry Award for his sixth collection, Split Horizons. His poems are featured in American Alphabets: 25 Contemporary Poets (2006) and many other anthologies.
He currently holds the Margaret T. and Henry C. Bourne, Jr. Chair in Poetry at the Georgia Institute of Technology and runs their Poetry at Tech program, which includes one of the best known poetry reading series as well as community outreach classes and workshops.
- Render, Render
- You and Your Ilk
- Gradeschool's Large Windows
- Ode to the Unbroken World, Which Is Comi...
- Blue with Collapse
- To Help the Monkey Cross the River
- Tarantulas on the Lifebuoy
- The People of the Other Village
- Ode to the Electric Fish that Eat Only t...
- The Horse Poisoner
- Empty Pitchforks
- The Bitterness of Children
Thomas Lux Poems
"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
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
The Man Into Whose Yard You Should Not H...
each day mowed and mowed his lawn, his dry quarter acre, the machine slicing a wisp from each blade's tip. Dust storms rose
A Library Of Skulls
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
One wave falling forward meets another wave falling forward. Well-water, hand-hauled, mineral, cool, could be a kiss, or pastures
The artisans of this room, who designed the lamp base (a huge red slug with a hole where its heart should be) or chose this print of a butterscotch sunset,
Henry Clay's Mouth
Senator, statesman, speaker of the House, exceptional dancer, slim, graceful, ugly. Proclaimed, before most, slavery an evil, broker
Marine Snow At Mid-Depths And Down
As you descend, slowly, falling faster past you this snow, ghostly, some flakes bio- luminescent (you plunge,
They are, the surfaces, gorgeous: a master pastry chef at work here, the dips and whorls, the wrist-twist squeezes of cream from the tube
Unlike, For Example, The Sound Of A Ript...
gnawing through a shinbone, a high howl inside of which a bloody, slashed-by-growls note is heard, unlike that sound, and instead, its opposite: a barely sounded
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,
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
How, in the first place, did they get torn-pulled down hard too many times: to hide a blow, or sex, or a man
They are, the surfaces, gorgeous: a master
pastry chef at work here, the dips and whorls,
squeezes of cream from the tube
to the tart, sweet bleak sugarwork, needlework
toward the perfect lace doily
where sit the bone-china teacups, a little maze
of meaning maybe in their arrangement
sneaky obliques, shadow