an old writer and his words

  • SABBATH

    Fourth floor, Antwerp Hilton, night encasing the Schelde, ragout of boar and claret slowly regurgitating, I pause ancient words, stutteringly said, hand on my head a shoddy cover two parts of eight fully remembered one section only in part, turning East or a best guess. I ask nothing, or perhaps too much it is hard…

    Lou Faber

  • BENDING DREAMS

    In Hawaii I could stare for hours at a taro field, the bent back of a farmer, and the same a gentle fold of spine I saw from the Shinkansen, Tokyo to Osaka amid the fields of yellow, later rice in some bowl perhaps even mine, or in Antwerp as the chef patiently picked over…

    Lou Faber

  • ROAD FOOD

    In Hawaii I could stare for hours at a Taro field, the bent back of a farmer, and the same a gentle fold of spine I saw from the Shinkansen, Tokyo to Osaka amid the fields of yellow shoots, later rice in some bowl, perhaps even mine, or in Antwerp as the chef patiently picked…

    Lou Faber

  • ANTWERP

    It is seven in the morning Antwerp arises slowing in winter the small bar along seldom used quays of Schelde is almost empty, one old man tottering on his stool swaying to breath head pressed on the counter. Young couple, she brown haired pale white skin against white sweater, he long blond woven into a…

    Lou Faber

  • RIVERS

    I have never been particularly one for rivers. Like everyone, I’ve walked along their shores, listened to them gurgle under remote bridges but otherwise never paid them much attention. There’s an old Buddhist saying you can’t step into the same river twice, but that presupposes you step into the river the first time. I remember…

    Lou Faber