an old writer and his words

  • THIS POEM

    This poem beginswith infinitepossibility First Published in the 2005 Scars Publications Poetry Wall Calendar

    Lou Faber

  • AND PEACE?

    Santayana said, “Only the deadhave seen the end of the war.”We have grown adept at wars,no longer global in scope, butubiquitous in frequency. Mine was fought in the ricepaddies of Vietnam, and on thecampus where we struggledvaliantly and vainly to protest,and when that failed, in the heatof Texas, marching about, goingthankfully nowhere, shippedto Niagara Falls…

    Lou Faber

  • WE ARE SORRY, BUT

    I will take it,the aging poet saidto the ever more sparsecrowd at the weeklyopen mic,as a recognitionis the growthin the qualityof my writingthat I continuebeing rejectedbut now by amuch higherquality ofliterary journals.

    Lou Faber

  • NONATTACHMENT

    There was the collectivist period,those years when I wanteda copy of every book on BuddhismI could locate, a full and nearlycomplete library, sutras andphilosophical discourses included. There was the moment when Irealized the absurdity of all that,the attachment to textsto enable me to find the abilityto practice non-attachment,and I gave the books away,and finally set…

    Lou Faber

  • WORKSHOP

    Grace settles into the chair,less an act of sitting thanof floating down onto the seat.She has borrowed my grandmother’ssmile, kind, gentle, inviting.She pulls a book from her bag,its pages or most of themdog eared, and I glimpsesome annotations in the margins.We sit around her like childrenawaiting presents on a holiday,as acolytes seeking knowledgefrom a font…

    Lou Faber

  • DEMANDED TIME

    I’ve made a practicewhich feels more like a demand,that each day I take a fewmoments or more and stopwhatever else I was, orshould have been, doingto write a poem. There are days, perhaps thisone where it seems morea short bit of prose to whichI have added line breaksdespite the protestof the words, condemning themto bear…

    Lou Faber

  • FORGOTTEN SOULS

    From the heart of the infernoDante and Lucifer grow boredwaiting, waiting for the ferrywhile Charon stops for lunchyet again at a Greek dinerin the heart of Hell’s Kitchen.They take up a game of catchtossing Molotov cocktails,raining fire onto the brimstone,setting the Styx ablaze.Each knows this is not necessary,for necessity is a creatureof heaven and there…

    Lou Faber

  • TOODLE-OO

    So, Bly, you have finallygone and joined the parade,holding out the longest as thoughthat was a badge you couldsomehow carry out with you. Take consolation that youbested Ginsberg and Corsoand even outlasted Ferlinghetti,though he was giving youa run for your money. And Plath, well shewas the first, far too youngeveryone said, but now Iam left…

    Lou Faber

  • HE WAS

    He was a writer. That is what he told people who asked what he did. Although he said it was what, no who he was. He said he wanted to be the sort of person that Stalin feared, a man of ideas, maybe someday, in an Alexieian world, charged with a crime of holding an…

    Lou Faber

  • PAPER CUTS

    Paper is at once boththe cruelest invention a writermay have stumbled acrossand also her salvation. The blank page invites,often demands the penand is unjudging, yet the poetmay change or deletebut the paper retains the originaland throws it back in his face. The computer, many say,changed all of that, backspaceor highlight and delete andthat mistake, misuse,…

    Lou Faber