an old writer and his words

  • BUDDHIST ENTOMOLOGY

    One of the hardest things about being a Buddhist are the insects. Setting aside their sentiency, insects are a true test of our ability to honor the first of the four vows, for while moths can be captured in cupped hands, the karmic dilemma of how to deal with a spider that refuses to crawl…

    Lou Faber

  • HISTORY

    I took yesterday and pressed it between the pages of my unabridged dictionary. The day began at sunrise and ended just before it became a supplicant, though to what, was not at all apparent. Days can be frustrating when they refuse to allow sufficient margins. I always thought Thursday’s among the best behaved, or at…

    Lou Faber

  • ISOLATION

    She wondered what it would be like to be an island, set off somewhere in a vast ocean, tropical preferably where the only sounds were the ebb and flow of the waves, the thunder of the occasional storm and the whisper of leaves tossed by the omnipresent sea breezes. she liked isolation, the silence of…

    Lou Faber

  • FIFTY-EIGHT MINUTES, MORE OR LESS

    In a bit less than an hour a new exhibit will open empty space will be occupied with moving bodies of artist and viewer, universes will form a thousand children will be born an old man in a distant city will slip away a contented look pressed into his face world leaders will ask why…

    Lou Faber

  • AN AFTERNOON SPENT

    We sit around a small table in the YAK Coffee and Beer on the edge of Namdaemun listening to loud pop songs on tinny speakers. The Hite Beer bottles sweat dripping on the Formica table down our backs the dankness of the subway clinging to us, bathed in the smoke from the couples hunched over…

    Lou Faber

  • WORDS

    “Suppose,” he says “words may be used only once, after that they disappear.” “You mean in a poem” she replies, “or life itself?” Even four stanzas can challenge most except perhaps Basho. Haiku would replace sonnets, villanelles, sestinas suddenly gone, anaphora is self-contradiction. “Imagine,” the young girl mused “sloganless politicians, talking heads struck mute, hushed…

    Lou Faber

  • SEASON OF OUR CONTENT

    It is Spring and I press my ear to still barren soil to hear the hypnotic thrum of sap reaching slowly skyward engine straining against gravity earthworms beginning their tunneling, marshaling armies for an exodus through ever night soil. I listen to the bud its velour face unfolding before the stillborn sky, a robin, breast…

    Lou Faber

  • FUJI

    Looking out the window of the Osaka bound train at the great snow-covered mountain I saw, for just a moment my face on its slopes. Staring down at the train hurtling across the fields, the great Fuji smiled briefly before returning to its stony stare.

    Lou Faber

  • DREAM WALKING

    Tonight I will again walk through my dream scrapbook re-creating you. For a bit longer, at least, I have full creative expression knowing now that you died six years ago, never married. I will search from the carefully or inadvertently dropped clue, your obituary, bits and facts that could never have come from the adoption…

    Lou Faber

  • CLOCKING

    I never expected this, he said. It came from out of nowhere. None of us predicted it. It’s a sort of thing that happens elsewhere, but not here, at least that was our assumption. We certainly never wanted it to come to this. But come it did, and so we accepted it. We learned to…

    Lou Faber