Lewis Warsh, Elixir, Ugly Duckling Presse, 2022
excerpt (pdf)
Animated by a poignant blend of humor, pathos, joie de vivre, and nostalgia, Elixir is an extended meditation on everyday life and the passage of time. Fragments of narrative, overheard dialogue, song lyrics, and slant memoir surface and recede throughout. Examining the inseparable entanglement of the quotidian and the profound with wit and candor, these poems are personal, direct, and elusive at the same time.
Elixir is a multi-personaed action movie, a love poem, a trip down memory lane, a Kulchur lexicon, an ode to NYC and tribute to exotic ports everywhere. It’s a tender balm for the paranoid and lonely, and a tentacular tonic for the heart of Time. I loved, once married, and have kept attentive to half a century and more writing of this genius of The Poem. Lewis Warsh opens the doors of perception with wit, suspense, beauty, surprise. - Anne Waldman
I’ll never forget hearing Lewis Warsh read for the first time, how he kept the room in a trance, at the edge of every line, leaning ever forward. The book was called Inseparable, its poetry driven by an associational logic that is key to the form his work took on over the last few decades. A collage so seamless maybe it’s not, a song drifts in and out the window, changing the view but not the tone, which stays with you as the story keeps shifting stanza by stanza, like life itself. Elixir is the latest collection of this dark and playful work, which has changed my sense of what’s possible in language. This is poetry that comes back to haunt you in the end. My favorite kind. - Ryan Eckes
Elixir is a stunning final collection of poems by Lewis Warsh, full of jokes, music, melancholic flashes, meanderings, and surprises (“The sunlight on the sand is breathing beneath your skin”). It’s also a practical handbook of possible 21st century poetic forms, with a wide range of lyric prowess enhanced by memory and humor, looking back on seven decades of reading, writing & publishing. New York City is the locus of the page, a place for and of the poem from start to finish, along with a confluence of personal geographies, glimpses of lives and friends in Cambridge and western Massachusetts in the 1970s and San Francisco and Bolinas in the 1960s (“There are many street corners where last / Conversations took place—”). Reading this book I think of David Bowie’s Blackstar and George Harrison’s Brainwashed, where death is acknowledged in the songs, a posthumous masterpiece. A tour de force with an absolutely modern sense of poetry as a living craft. - Guillermo Parra
I want to talk about how beautiful a book Elixir is, and describe its mastery, and soulfulness, but then I imagine Lewis teasing me about using “mastery,” then teasing the word itself, then placing it in five different phrases to create a tonal scale out of amusement and precision. There are so many layers of possibility Lewis Warsh tended to in his writing, without signaling that he was doing so, which make the poetry inviting and mysterious—steeped in recognition of common experience and wry depths of personal idiosyncrasy. His sense for arrangement of line and sentence across formal vessels that allow everything to be let in and go together is one I’ve loved and learned from for years. To have this book is to have a gift to dive into. - Anselm Berrigan
Lewis Warsh’s Elixir gathers the fragments of memory: song lyrics, novel titles, oft-repeated phrases whose meanings transform with time. His gentle voice comes through the lines, measuring time by touching the lives and afterlives of every character who walks through his poems—students, workers, neighbors, exes, lovers. Open Elixir to 'look through the keyhole and see who’s there.' - Lyric Hunter
Lewis Warsh always seemed to have a presence of being on the corner, in the room, out and about, tucked in bed, with a preternatural zen consciousness at play, the slight yet complex humor in his eyes, the old devil cigarette smoke wafting to the sky, a hint of a smile, the profundity of poetry defining his heart. To read these poems is to kick back with Lewis, or to hug him, he loved hugs I think. Poetry is nothing if not the illustration of momentous meditation, a laughing affirmation of lust, and a desire for unknowing. Lewis was cool, forever like that. - Thurston Moore
Neither elegist nor archivist exactly, the late Lewis Warsh (1944–2020) strenuously mulled over the many quotidian and surprising situations and he found himself participating in — or he imagined — with pathos and a comically causal exasperation throughout his long career. In doing so, he commemorated the confusion of trying to make sense of a life, or lives. With a deceptively casual, even whimsical voice, he mulled over social exchanges and various incidents as if they were the most inscrutable, and yet compelling, indices to find your inexact coordinates in the chaos of community. As oblique witness to the range of weird and wacky relationships we may cultivate across a lifespan, as ardent inquirer about mortality in general, he manages in his many books (Elixir is the 24th) to play a game of poetic solitaire and play the role of the chatty town crier. The present-ness in so much of his work makes this posthumous poet so deeply alive.
Warsh cannot be properly placed in any specific field or school … yet. His typical classification as Second Generation New York School Poet, seems too easy, too parochial, too regionally stultifying. True, he was a Bronx-born resident of NYC for most of his life and definitely a genial, prolific habitué of the local literary scene. And, yes, it is difficult to recall how many times I saw him at readings over the years, whether as enthusiastic an audience member or an always entrancing featured poet. Local poets, young and old, affiliates or malcontents of whatever poetry schools, venerated him and let him know he was cherished. As they should have. But give the man some breathing space. He is more than his geography in terms of importance and expression.
Lewis Warsh was a restless troubadour, moving across many tracts, planes, and domains. To relegate him to the NYC poetry playing field is more than just reductive; it is akin to placing him under house arrest. Yes, his house was St. Mark’s Poetry Project, among many other local haunts, but his poetic imagination is not restricted to NYC at all. His many arresting and on-the-move reveries and uncertainties span and sprawl, across the country, sometimes around the world, and many histories besides.
Even young, Warsh was obsessed by death and its irresistible imminence. In “Gout,” from 1968, he notes:
My dream, to have a hearth, and
set an example for fleeting
youth. The conspicuous peacock,
neither turns nor changes,
yet suddenly loses his feathers, buckles
in the dust and dies. The
meaning is as fantastic as any truth. Language
invents a painkilling drug for restoring youth—an
occasion inviting feelings which
jolt and never subside. I mean
he is dying again, slowly, as he gains time.
Elixir indeed! Warsh, not yet 24, was already wistful and wondering about final days. Therefore, this handsomely designed posthumous publication, by Ugly Duckling Presse, cannot be considered an endpoint as much as a continuation of careful, constant inquiry, a sequence of a serial poem written over decades (from “Anything You Say”: “I write the same poem again & again without meaning to”). Language’s “painkilling drug” may not stave off the inevitable but its reckoning with it is a memorable preservative.
But Warsh’s take is complex, complicated, and, thus, all the more arresting. He is not content with the (insufficient) memory retrieval prowess his poems represent. The inability to remember fully or memorize precisely haunts the work. After all, circumstances and their sequences can be tricky to follow, memories can be elusive when trying to recollect, disorienting one’s relationship to them. “Something you did/in the past can come back,” he observes in “Weak in the Knees,” yet “[…] I am not talking/about myself necessarily/but someone I used to know,” he writes in “One Drink Minimum.” Uncertainty about the past prompts a combination of bemusement and bewilderment. The past self is in part a stranger and that stranger-self an irreducible aspect of Warsh’s identity.
Perhaps an awareness of his coming death intensifies both the summoning of remembered friends and experiences and the unstable, insubstantial ultimate reckoning that remembrance can occasion. “Elixir” takes place in hospital room five months before the poet’s death (it is dated “Thursday 4am/June 11, 2020”):
What matters most my friends are gone
See their faces, hear them speak
“I have so many regrets” he said
Ice cream, he wanted ice cream
The nurse brings me a cup of cold orange sherbet
The first thing I’ve eaten in days
Schlovsky’s Third Factory and Alice’s For the Ride
On my bedside table
Alice is poet Alice Notley, a close contemporary of Warsh’s. The poem’s final lines feature an elegiac inventory of poet-friends recently deceased: Joanne Kyger, Bill Berkson, Bill Corbett, Ted Greenwald, and Bill Kushner. The poem ends with a tender post-operation vision of the poet’s wife, Katt Lissard: “Katt’s face as I step from the shower and she dries my back/and shoulders/My scrawny shoulders.” Here, so rarely in the volume are remembrances and yearnings that establish vividness and solidity; otherwise, it embarks in general on an odyssey through evanescence, a ghostly voyage in which “… no one knows, for/a second,/what’s going on inside anyone” (“Not Far”), a voyage where “you can drop me at the corner/of Forgive & Forget” (“Single Occupancy”). There is a call and response effect to these poems, searching for traces of a life and the language with which to reclaim some vital, escaping essence. These poems speak to each other just as they speak to the reader.
The poet comes across as companionable yet strange, setting himself apart as he deliberates the distance between present and past identities and lives. For Warsh, the provisional nature of being and social exchanges amounts to relentless role playing — a premise that turns the world into a theatrical or film conceit, abounding in characters and actors, scenes rather than scenarios, in which reality becomes fantasy and vice-versa:
so you in the audience and you in the
starring role are almost the same
good looking clean cut up tight all of
the above and none
I wouldn’t recognize you on a bus
if you paid me
to get on and off (“Old Flame”)
Elsewhere: “Don’t get lost in the part, you won’t/meet anyone you know” and, later, “Take me back in time to the person I once was” (“No Tomorrow”). The major sequence “On the Western Front” affirms how “you can never go back/to where you came from.” This frankness about the futility of fully recovering past lives from this frustrated empiricist is refreshing, as it never betrays bleakness or abandons the task of striving to recuperate the losses in time, despite the ultimate failure of the project. The tone is vigorous, the survey providing insights even without conclusiveness. The poet can still make himself a jester rather than mere chronicler of despair. The first poem, “Night Sky,” also prepares us for last things: “Do I hold/on for a moment or do/I slip over the edge?” Lewis Warsh posits that question for us all, and Elixir is pure panacea for the pain of existence. May it bolster his reputation as one of the finest poets of his generation. - Jon Curley https://hyperallergic.com/757007/lewis-warsh-elixir/
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Lewis Warsh (1944–2020) was a key poet of the second generation New York School and—as a teacher, poet, mentor, and publisher of Angel Hair and United Artists Books—a significant figure in New York poetry communities for over 50 years. He authored over thirty volumes of poetry, fiction and autobiography, including Out of the Question: Selected Poems 1963–2003 (Station Hill Press), One Foot Out the Door: Collected Stories, A Place in the Sun (both from Spuyten Duyvil) and Inseparable: Poems 1995–2005 (Granary Books). With Ugly Duckling Presse, he published Alien Abduction and the chapbook Flight Test; his final book, Elixir, is forthcoming from UDP in 2022. He received grants from the National Endowment for the Arts, the New York State Council of the Arts, The Poet’s Foundation and The Fund for Poetry. Mimeo Mimeo #7 was devoted to his poetry, fiction and collages, and to a bibliography of his work as a writer and publisher. He taught at Naropa University, The Poetry Project, Bowery Poetry, SUNY Albany and Long Island University (Brooklyn), where he was director of the MFA program in creative writing from 2007–2013. He lived in Manhattan and in Western Massachusetts.
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