an old writer and his words

  • I WANT

    I want my poem to scream out so loudthat you will hear it even if you are notpaying attention or are busy with other thingsyou think are more important than poetry. Too often my poems just lie on the paper,or are dead pixels on a screen, whisperingwhat I wanted shouted, but I am so oftena…

    Lou Faber

  • ELLISON WAS HERE

    I still remember sitting raptly listening to youread a story you promised would bein your next collection, Harlan, or certainlythe one after that, after all you were a writerand without writing you were a marginalcharacter in the story of a city given overto film and television and you were no actor.You were fearless, you told…

    Lou Faber

  • COLUMN B

    In college, as an English majorI chose Chaucer as my mandatoryColumn B on the menu, Shakespearemy easy Column A choice since the bardand I were at least passingly familiaralthough he claimed not to remember me.Milton just wasn’t my cup of meadso he easily became the odd man out.I listened to the lectures, got comfortablewith the…

    Lou Faber

  • UNSCRIPTED

    I am so tired of readinglines written for me by othersalways a cold readinglacking emotion and substance.I have my own voice, readyto deliver my soliloquy.I have been livingfor seven decades.But I know that Iwill be seen as yetanother Yorickushered off the stage.And I imaging myselfremembered by someone youngerwho will recall no morethan a passing memory.

    Lou Faber

  • THIS IS NOT: AN APOLOGY

    This is an apology I never wantedor thought I would have to write butnow, my grandchildren, it is necessary. This is not the world I wantedto leave to you, what I had hopedwas a world at peace, a world whereyou could be anything without beingjudged or shunned, where wordshad meaning and books were treasures. Instead…

    Lou Faber

  • I WANT TO BELIEVE

    I want to believethat I am a man of words,to think you would agree,for words inundate my world. In my home I live among wordssome mine, mostly those of others. They follow me like a shadowat noon, the sunalways on my face. I want to know what theywant from me but theydo not answer or…

    Lou Faber

  • A FOOL’S BUSINESS

    At the end of a long day spenton the business end of poetry, andyes there is a business end but do notconfuse that with money for thathas nothing at all to do with poetry,I stare at the page knowing the wordsare going to be stubborn this day,will refuse to exit the pen, hidingin the darkness…

    Lou Faber

  • WITH PEN AND PRAYER

    It all came crashing down. That was the ending he had written, so that was how it would end. And this time he actually liked the ending which was not often the case. He could not remember a time when the ending came to him so naturally. And the ending was always the hardest part.…

    Lou Faber

  • LONGER

    Some may wonder why, lately,it is taking me forever to reada relatively short novel when Inormally read at warp speed.The last time this happenedit was either Calvino’s IfOn A Winter Night . . . orperhaps Michael Ondaatje’sThe English Patient bothof which presented the sameobstacle that I could not clear.With those books and Rulfo’sPedro Paramo I…

    Lou Faber

  • WHAT ISN’T LEFT BEHIND

    When a poet dies they will be mournedby those who loved them,those who admired them.Obituaries and eulogieswill be offered, tearswill be shed and memorieswill begin to slowly fadeafter the short possiblesale spike has run its course.I am no differentthan all of the other mournersbut I take an extra momentto mourn all of the wordsand the…

    Lou Faber