an old writer and his words

  • CZERNY IN HELL

    Mrs. Schwarting lived in a small cottage. Mrs. Schwarting taught piano in her living room. Mrs. Schwarting had no first name, even checks were to be made payable to “Mrs. Schwarting.” Mrs. Schwarting grew suddenly old, some said, to fully fit into her name, no one could remember her ever being young. Mrs. Schwarting said…

    Lou Faber

  • THANKFUL

    She said I should be thankful that I am not a rice farmer. She said that I should be thankful that I am not over seven feet tall, and not less than four feet eight inches, although she concedes that four feet nine would not be cause for celebration. She says I should be thankful…

    Lou Faber

  • SOZAN’S FOUR DON’TS 鐵笛倒吹 九十二

    You may seek to follow the path of the dove – a fool knows many roads. You may wrap yourself in fine linen – an infant wears only his skin, and knows this moment is already gone. Think long before you speak of how to walk along the path, of where it leads. The baby…

    Lou Faber

  • WHAT’S IN A

    He is fond of the name Alejandro Carlos Ernesto Rodrigo Guttierez. The fact is, he loves the name. He knows it has a certain nobility to it. It enbodies and conveys strengh and character. It is a source of pride and great satisfaction. The name makes him taller, bolder. There is so much in a…

    Lou Faber

  • AWAITING THE WAVES

    “Describe yourself,” she said “that I might capture you if only for this moment a footprint left once you have departed this place and time.” I am, I should think, biologically plausible though straining the bounds of reason once and again. I tend to philosophic androgyny hovering on the fulcrum of paradox. I am the…

    Lou Faber

  • A POET IS

    A poet is a child who on seeing a blank page must fill it with dreams hears the song of the nightingale in the din of passing traffic comforts the lonely mother recalling the pain of a thousand births sees in each passing cloud the tears of a generation feels the heat of the sun…

    Lou Faber

  • SEOUL: A TALE OF TWO CITIES

    Namdaeman is a ghetto of shops and stalls, where men squat cupping cigarettes and gesture, their hands grasping stacks of bills, rocking on their heels until they leap up to a patron, asking this price or that, assessing the will of the buyer by the thickness of his or her wallet. An old woman sits…

    Lou Faber

  • CRYING

    There is  a tear in God’s eye, the blood of the children of Aleppo.

    Lou Faber

  • UNGAN’S NOT ANY SINGLE WORD

    The youngest child, her mind uncluttered, can answer any question unburdened by words, and her answers can only rebound across the universe. If you stop struggling to hear her, let the silence surround you both, you cannot escape the answers. A reflection on case 84 of the Shobogenzo (True Dharma Eye)

    Lou Faber

  • MILES FROM HERE

    Some say Miles said it’s the space between the notes – that’s where the music is. We heard him, we smiled, we anticipated the next note and the next. Outside my window a blue jay recites his morning prayer, the child’s laugh breaks the frozen sky and shivers the maple. Then all is silence –…

    Lou Faber