an old writer and his words

  • A MISTAKE IN SPEAKING 無門關 三十九

    When you speak the words of the Buddha you are lost. Light is everywhere in silence but the tongue must hide in the dark of the mouth. Buddha’s words are flowers unfolding in the dawn by the side of the still pond, the eyes hear the song and respond in silent chorus. A reflection on…

    Lou Faber

  • SATORI

    The empty wine bottle nestling the foot of the postal box wants nothing more that to speak its mind but it is forsworn to silence, and stares into the old Maytag box tucked in the alley next to the dumpster. The bedraggled man sits against the wall and debates the meaning of knowledge with the…

    Lou Faber

  • FIFTY-ONE SYLLABLES (3 HAIKU)

      Trapped in cloud sandwich above is white, below white up, down disappear The garden Buddha slowly gathers moss as we watch summer fading. In the sun’s harsh glare the water lilies turn their back on the sleeping pond.

    Lou Faber

  • MEDITATION

    Sitting cross-legged on the floor staring into the pristine moon I hear the wailing of the dog next door, his mantra engulfs mine and I slide away braying at the moon.

    Lou Faber

  • 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