an old writer and his words

  • NEVER EVER

    For those who cannot see the picture above, please imagine this text is the most hated font of all time*: There are certain sinsa poet learns never to commit,whether by teaching orsimply bad experience. Poetic sins come in manyshapes and sizes, grammatical,typographical, metaphorical,or just about any -al you choose. Bad rhyme is a minefield, unableto…

    Lou Faber

  • TOOLING AROUND

    I have always wantedto use the word lugnutsin a poem, but stillhave never foundthe way to do so. It is much the samewith my full setof socket wrenches,still in futile searchfor a matchingset of sockets. I keep my bastardfile in the garagewith the other filesand tools, butmy name isthe only one in it.

    Lou Faber

  • THE POEM

    The poem, all too often,suffers from a solitariness thatborders on despair, alonein a world that otherwise offersno peace or quiet contemplaton. The poem does not wish this,it prefers to be the centerof attention in the midstof all that is happeningat any given moment. The poem never expectedto have to struggle so muchfor even the smallest…

    Lou Faber

  • A LOST PEN

    I wrote a poem for my father,about how one afternoonthe oddly green ’57 Caddyappeared in the drivewayand he polished its chrome for hours,even waxed the black bumper bullets.It was the love of his lifehe said, except for his wife,he added after a moment.The years would provethat addition was most likely false.I could send him the…

    Lou Faber

  • INSIDE THE PAGE

    She asks innocently,listening to the wind whisperingthrough the bare branches of the oak,“How long have you livedin this poem,” pointingto the page of markedand remarked typescript.He looks at her as if discoveringshe’d grown another head,peeking out from betweenher well-polished teeth.“I have no idea what you mean,”he says, “I write the poems—it is up to you…

    Lou Faber

  • FOR NOW

    Tomorrow this poem willmost assuredly no longer be here,though when during the nightit will slip away, never againto be seen, I don’t know or perhaps itwill return in a form I would not recognize,recrafted by the hand of an unseen editor. It may take on a meaning unfamiliar,or translate itself into a tonguethat I can…

    Lou Faber

  • SIPPING

    I spent much of the afternoon tryingto imagine you, spending a small partof an afternoon reading this poem. I have no clear picture of where you are,but the chair is well cushioned, andyou sit deeply in it, a glass of some amber liquid on the glass and metalend table, just within arm’s reach.I suppose, since…

    Lou Faber

  • WRITTEN ON WATER

    Tomorrow this poem will most assuredly no lnger be here, though when during the night it will slip away, never again to be seen, I don’t know or perhaps it will return in a form I would not recognize, re-crafted by the hand of an unseen editor. It may take on a meaning unfamiliar, or…

    Lou Faber

  • REASON

    I write poems about Wisconsin because I love the sound of the word cheese.

    Lou Faber

  • THIS POEM

    This poem begins with infinite possibility

    Lou Faber