Lewis Warsh Photography by Max Warsh
Good morning, everyone — and a happy, hopeful New Year to you. Poetry is truly medicine for the soul, and this is surely a time when our souls can use some healing.
Our poet today, Lewis Warsh, is one whose poems I confess I didn’t know until I went to a reading at The Bookstore in Lenox, Mass., where several of his longtime friends celebrated his work and life.
Lewis Warsh was not only a poet but also an editor, visual artist, educator and author of over thirty volumes of poetry, fiction, and autobiography.
The three poems that follow are from his last book, Elixir (Ugly Duckling Press, 2022).
BLUE MOON
There are some buzzwords you
need to know if you want to get on
in the world, keep up with
current events, for instance, but
I don’t know what they are.
Meanwhile, The Planets by Gustav
Holst is playing on late night
radio, coming to you from the dead
zone, the side of the Hudson.
A turn in the road and you’ll find
your place, though you didn’t know
you had one before this moment.
If you go too fast you might mis-
read the sign and think that
you’re somewhere else, which often
happens in the course of life,
like cutting in on a couple when
they’re dancing the polka,
or walking around in the rain
on Constitution Square in Athens,
the drops falling on your head
one at a time.
HERE WE ARE
Here we are back on Shattuck Avenue
of all places. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.
All the ghosts are still alive. Some
strange dude from your distant past
might even step out of the shadows.
Nothing surprises me. You can linger
over a croissant until your hair turns gray,
but then what? The late evening fog is coming
in over the tops of the hills. There’s an all night
CVS right around the corner. A thumbnail
sketch of my heart on the bathroom wall.
A ransom note written in invisible ink.
Sometimes adversity works in your favor.
Liquid plumber might come in handy
if the pipes are clogged. A mail-order bride
steps off a train into the arms of a stranger.
All the dark places where we used to go are
still open for business. Everything is
half-price. You can cross against the light
if you see me coming. Shattuck Ave,
lost in the afterglow.
AU GRATIN
I mistook you for someone I knew
on the B train
It came on time and then it sat
in the station
and everyone stared into the eyes
of the strangers across the aisle,
men and women both
some the 3-fingered gloves
took the time to apply lip gloss
in preparation for the night ahead
the bed, the distribution rights,
the women in grass skirts
a mountain
of red ants, mock turtle soup
under a low flame.
Reprinted with the permission of The Estate of Lewis Warsh.