an old writer and his words

  • RULES

    I learned from John Berrymanby way of W.S. Merwin that as a poetI should paper my walls with rejection letters.I thought this a good idea whenI lived in a small apartment, butall too soon the walls appearedto be growing ever smallerand I was papering over paper,like the latest in a too longline of tenants who…

    Lou Faber

  • WINDOWS

    The problem, she says,is that we think that windows are thereto look out of, to see the world outside.If you believe that, she adds, whydo half the windows on your houseoffer you a view of the house next door,or if you must live in New York Citythe windows of another apartmentor building, knowing they havethe…

    Lou Faber

  • TOKYO SNAPSHOTS

    In the small yardof the matchbox housethe lone Ginkgotwisted by timefeels the barrennessof winter’s tongueand mournsits solitude. The apartment building looms upover the tracks of the Narita Expressthe balconies are deserted, savefor the laundry which flapsin the morning breeze,slapping with the gustsinto the small satellite dishesbolted to the railings. The ancient trees are twistedand gnarled,…

    Lou Faber

  • SISTER

    I can picture her sittingin her small apartmentholding a cup of tea.This is Parma, or perhaps,Milan, two of the threecities I visited in Italy.Her hair is long, grayand white, her smile pained.She does not know I existbut we share so much,a father we never metfirst and foremost.We will never meet,for she, too, may be dead…

    Lou Faber

  • BANG

    His day ended much as it began, nothing happening. He wanted something to happen if only to break the eternal monotony. Yes, people came and went outside his window but that hardly counted as something happening. If one had taken flight, that would be something. If one instantly vaporized, that would be something. If the…

    Lou Faber

  • SMALL REFLECTION

    It is that moment when the moonis a glaring crescent,slowly engulfed bythe impending night—when the few clouds give outtheir fading glowin the jaundiced lightof the sodium arc street lamp.It nestles the curb—at first a small bird—when touched, a twisted piece of root. I want to walk into the weed-strewnaging cemetery, stand in the shadowof the…

    Lou Faber

  • MOVING DAY

    In my dream last nightI was moving a matress, queen sized,probably with box springs butit was wrapped, from my parents’ hometo my apartment, but not usinga vehicle, just pushing italong the streets, obeyingall the traffic signals, usingmy turn indicators, althoughdon’t ask why a mattress hadturn lights, just accept that it did.It was arduous work, and…

    Lou Faber

  • FIRST KISS

    You ask me if I rememberwhen we first kissed, and then addand what was it really like for me. I know the answer you expect,and I am reluctant to tell youotherwise, but I have to be honest. It was moments after I left youat your door on our first date,having found my car finallyin the…

    Lou Faber

  • GIVE US THIS DAY

    The old bus shelter has spray painted walls and a broken metal bench. Each morning he shuffles up the hill, a battered leatherette briefcase clutched tightly in his right hand, a copy of the Seattle Times “Nixon in China” in the other. He sits calmly on the bench case between his knees and waits patiently…

    Lou Faber

  • SMALL REFLECTION

    It is that moment when the moon is a glaring crescent, slowly engulfed by the impending night — when the few clouds give out their fading glow In the jaundiced light of the sodium arc street lamp.- It nestles the curb — at first a small bird — when touched, a twisted piece of root…

    Lou Faber