an old writer and his words

  • HOPE, YET

    There is a certain pleasurein reading obscure biographiesof the decidedly lesser lightsof their respective fields.Inevitably a writer assiduouslystruggles to avoid mentionof the great men and womenwho define the discipline,and the books are shorter,for even if their lives were visitedby great trials, and even ifthey overcame obstacles,we all know they ascendedonly so far, and we,at the…

    Lou Faber

  • MANY THINGS

    There are many thingsyou will never hear a poet say: I wanted to write a concrete poembut every time I floated the ideait immediately sank I love occasional poetrybut I never have foundthe occasion to write any It is no wonder so many poetsare starving because allthey write is free verse I thought of writingconfessional…

    Lou Faber

  • READING PAUL MULDOON

    Reading Paul Muldoon this afternoonI thought of you for no reason.It wasn’t your birthday, notthat you celebrate them where you are,nor the anniversary of the day you died.And it certainly was not becauseI was reading about Ireland sinceI never imagined I had Irish blood, andyou never went there, and when I didI didn’t know you…

    Lou Faber

  • UNSPOKEN

    There is so much that hewould talk about, but dare not say.He knows keeping it withinis a recipe for pain and sufferingbut letting it loose makesthat pain and suffering a certaintyfor others and he is notwilling to do that to anyone.He laughs when he wants so muchto curse language for wordsare all he has and…

    Lou Faber

  • YOU ARE HERE

    You find yourself nowhere, and notin the middle of it but on the peripherywaiting for an exit, unsure howyou arrived here or why you stayed.This could be a wonderland but there isno rabbit hole, and the cat curled in sleeplying at your feet has never been to Chesireand says she has no desire to ever…

    Lou Faber

  • THE KEY

    “The key,” he said, “is to imbueyour work with poetic energy.”Those of us still botheringto pay attention at allto that empty husk of a oncewell-regarded, honored poethad no freaking idea whatthe hell he was talking aboutand we guessed he didn’t either.He was an easy A English courseand a few of us imagined ourselvesas successful writers,…

    Lou Faber

  • ANTIQUEING

    Mother was an inveterate attendeeat flea markets and Goodwill storesand I would accompany her.She had a knack for antiques, wouldrummage for stereopticon slides,player piano rolls and anything elseshe thought belonged in the family roomshe had taken back to the late 19th century.She scouted the stalls, the darkcorners where Goodwill put thingsthey didn’t think would sell,…

    Lou Faber

  • NOT THAT

    A writing teacher I admireonce told me that my truecreative self would only beunleashed if I stoppedwriting about what I knewand began writingabout what I didn’t know.I knew what he meantbut I can be a literal soulall too often, with yearsof practicing law and inthat state of mind I knewI was doomed to failurefor if…

    Lou Faber

  • TICK, TICK

    Ignore what the physicists tell you,for truth defies their neat lawsand time accelerates as you age.Stop and consider that the timeyou have left, however much it is,will, per unit of their measure,grow increasingly shorteruntil, of course, you have none leftand then it will cease to matter.So it is best to get on with living.Put aside…

    Lou Faber

  • TWO THAT AREN’T IRISH

    There once was a lad from Nantucketwho stuck his foot into a buckethe fell to the floorhit his head on the doorand touching it, said this is where I struck it. There once was a young lad from Des Moinesquite adept at the flipping of coinshe fleeced all his friendsleft them all at bitter endsand…

    Lou Faber