an old writer and his words

  • ON WRITING

    Someone once advised methat I should always writewhat I know, for that givesthe work an honesty that isessential to its believability. I should add that he said itknowing I was a poet,and not to cause me to give upany dreams of fictionI might still have harbored. But as I age, I find thatI seem to…

    Lou Faber

  • TIMING

    I spend my daylooking at clocks, timealways present but neverknowing if they tellthe right time and whatdifference it would makeif it were right or wrong.Ostensibly time isn’t relativebut I cannot determine to whatit isn’t relative, so I just go alongwondering what time is.

    Lou Faber

  • HOJU TURNS HIS BACK 鐵笛倒吹 七十二

    If a beggar approaches do you turn away from him. If a rich man calls to you, do you receive him openly. How do you tell them apart? If a poor thief in fine, stolen silks stands before you what do you offer in welcome, and what for his battered victim now wearing the thief’s…

    Lou Faber

  • WHO WILL BE KING?

    Tell me what you see, he says, and be as precise as possible. I suppose I see exactly what you see, we are looking at the same thing, at the same time, so how can it be any different for me then you? Are you seeing through my eyes? He smiles, for if so, I’d…

    Lou Faber

  • MIND THE GAP

    The difference between love and lust is as thin as the blade of a fine razor, as broad as the Rio Grande Canyon outside Taos, so how can you tell one from the other? Some will say it is an impossible task others will take the “I know it when I see it” route leading…

    Lou Faber

  • WALKING

    Walking on ice is easy, although you must be careful not to slip for the fall can be damaging, but walking on water is impossible unless you are not you, and he has returned in your body which we all find highly unlikely, although the difference between you is a simple state of matter. The…

    Lou Faber

  • ACROSS

    Across the river running limpid as mercury the sky is gun-metal gray and many stand in the windows of their small apartments and stare at buildings sitting like mausolea. On this side of the river running limpid as mercury the sky is gun-metal gray and many stand in the windows of their small apartments and…

    Lou Faber