Here in Haikutown
verisimilitude can
be found in line two.
But over in Tankaville
it can have three addresses.
writing
TREACHERY
René Magritte was born and died
in Belgium, neither happened
on this day, but he painted
a most realistic picture of a pipe,
which he captioned “Ceci N’est Pas
Une Pipe,” which of course it was not
since it was only a picture of a pipe
and he entitled the work
The Treachery of Images.
This brings to mind a question:
if I say, Ceci est une poeme,
is that true, or am I engaging
in a mere treachery of words?
Draw me a picture of your answer,
if you would be so kind.
THE POET’S JOURNEY
Between here and there
is an infinite gulf, and
finding yourself here
yet needing to get there,
what will you do when
you discover that all
you have is this pen?
NOW LISTEN UP
I read a poem
today, about a cat
and it reminded me,
actually the memory
of my last cat came to mind,
that cats
have an innate sense
of people, that people
utterly lack.
It may be that cats
are completely unfooled
by the masks we wear,
or simply that
they could care less
how we see ourselves,
and only measure us
by what we offer them.
In that sense, of course,
they are people, too.
CORSO
When my back was turned,
Corso slipped away
somewhere in Wisconsin
silently, without protest
carried off by Charon
across a gasoline river.
There was no bomb
to announce his departure,
no Queens orphanage stopped
frozen in a silent moment.
In the small park
at the north end
of Salt Lake City
no one lifted a jug
of bad wine to toast him,
the magic bus
just rolled by.
In the City Lights bookstore
Ferlinghetti shed a tear
that dried on the old wood floor
and from above a brief howl
pierced the morning calm.
Outside the small temple
on a back street in Tokyo
a Buddhist monk bowed
before the statue, read
the wooden prayer card
and whispered
Toodle-oo.
ERATO’S NIGHTMARE
That one summer
I worked in the plant
I could hear them whisper
in the break room,
with its always empty
Coke machine.
They’d get real quiet
when I came in
some would nod a hello
and quickly leave.
At first I thought
it was because I
was only there
for the summer,
but once, standing silently
outside the break room door,
I heard them talking
about the weirdo
who read fag poems
when no one was looking,
how he was probably
some sort of queer closet pinko.
I tucked my copy
of “Gasoline” in my back pocket
and wandered back
to my workstation, wondering
if Corso put
up with this bullshit.
APPEARANCE IN PEACOCK JOURNAL
This isn’t my usual post. It’s the second of the day, and it’s a gentle self-promotion. Three of my poems have just appeared in Peacock Journal. My work appears at this link:
http://peacockjournal.com/louis-faber-three-poems/
I found Peacock Journal thanks to a dear friend (and marvelous writer) Anne Michael.
Her blog (https://annemichael.wordpress.com/) is a joy to read, and well worth the effort. We were fellow M.F.A. students over a decade ago and her work impressed me then and still does.
I have stayed away from seeking to publish my work for a few years, focussing on completing my novel (if you know a good, hungry agent or publisher, do let me know). But seeing this Journal in which Anne appeared recently, got be back in the game. The blog comes first, but when you have been around as long as I, you have some material with which to work.
