an old writer and his words

  • HUANG PO’S GOBBLERS OF DREGS

    The old monk, leaning on his cane smiled at the man prostrating himself before the great Buddha repeatedly. The monk gently interrupted the man, “what is it you hope to achieve by all of these prostrations, you clearly are seeking something, you clearly have not found what you are seeking.” “I am seeking the wisdom…

    Lou Faber

  • QUARTET (HAIKU)

    pond’s surface ripples each following another stone hidden from sight the old monk listens to the song of the passing breeze stars sing the refrain Buddha walks the road ignoring all around him each finds a teacher a circular path will take you nowhere quickly again and again

    Lou Faber

  • PURE DHARMA BODY 正法眼蔵 二十六

    Standing at the foot of the mountain what side do you see. Standing atop the mountain what side to you not see. Close your eyes and you will see the mountain has no sides. Close your eyes and you will find there is no mountain. A reflection on case 36 of the Dogen’s Shobogenzo 

    Lou Faber

  • PADDIES

    At first it is a checkerboard of ponds neatly arrayed, reflecting the sun, the work of man, for God so rarely plays geometrician with creation, less often still using right angles. Soon enough green blades reach up through the shirred surface, random, reaching for a sun they can never touch. Later, it is a field,…

    Lou Faber

  • NEON

    Tokyo floats on a sea of lights washing to the horizons, whitecaps of neon break the placid surface, golden arches bob like fishing boats awaiting the dawn and the rebirth of life. The urban sea is manned by sailors each in his uniform, some scampering up the rigging, hoisting the sails of steel, concrete and…

    Lou Faber

  • TOKYO MEMORIES

    1. An older, silver-haired woman in neon green pants, a brown blouse and black shop apron stoops and carefully scrubs the alleyway outside her small shop. 2. Salarymen fill the tunnels of Kokkai-gijidomae station at 6 P.M., 7, 8, and in fewer numbers, 9, shuffling down the long corridors to the Chiyoda or Marunouchi Line trains,…

    Lou Faber

  • LEILA

    At the left click of the mouse my granddaughter appears barely a week old and with a right-click she is frozen into the hard drive. I remember sitting outside the Buddha Hall of Todai-Ji Temple in the mid-morning August sun the smiling at a baby waiting in her stroller for her mother to bow to…

    Lou Faber

  • DRAGON HOWLING IN A WITHERED TREE 正法眼蔵 二十八

    Cut the hook off the line and throw it into the lake, dump the bait container onto the damp soil along the shore. Now sit silently in the oarless boat in the middle of the lake and drop your line and wait for the dragon to bite. And when it does, yell at it, hear…

    Lou Faber

  • THROUGH GAIJIN EYES

    1. From the window of the hotel bus the small, squared fields are a green that only painters achieve, deep, intense, unreal. As the bus inches forward along the Narita–Tokyo expressway the green forms neat rows set off by a shimmer of the gray sky mirror that bathes the young plants. 2. Tokyo is a…

    Lou Faber

  • THEN AGAIN

    1970. The evening news is a procession of body bags, the halls of the VA Hospital are a storehouse of shattered bodies. He sits with a surreal placidity cross-legged on the small cushion, the corners of his eyes pulling up as if lost in thoughts of Kyoto. I sit, knees creaking even then, across the…

    Lou Faber