an old writer and his words

  • AN INKLING

    Writing is an art form that very many never see but the unseeing of the work is what elevates it to art. This is what you often hear from the unpublished, or even from the denizens of small press purgatory, the one the Vatican will never acknowledge, for the poets corner of heaven is so…

    Lou Faber

  • A DIFFERENT WORLD

    In a different world, I would write you stories, poems, that would bring a tear to your eye, that would make you laugh even when your mood would deny joy, that would bring freedom to some and loosen the shackles on many, that would reflect peace, that would lighten your burden, that would heal, if…

    Lou Faber

  • ANOTHER GHETTO

    She sits in the bookstore cafe her head covered by a linen kerchief bobby pinned to the mass of walnut curls. She cradles the cup of cooling coffee and stares down at the slim book of Amichai, yielding to the Hebrew letters that seem to dance across the page. I sit at the adjoining table…

    Lou Faber

  • THE MATTER OF TIME

    Time is a construct, the logic of which is inescapable to be sure, and yet we constantly seek to escape, but the exit is just beyond the distant horizon. We are on the edge of finding the God particle, and somewhere in time Higgs is threatening to smile, for once found, time will cease to…

    Lou Faber

  • PRECISELY

      On the radio this morning the DJ played the classic “In the Midnight Hour,” and I pause to reflect on the fact that midnight is a moment and cannot be an hour, by definition, since the halfway is only a point, not a range, and you cannot put a home on an hour, for…

    Lou Faber

  • CHANGES TOMORROW

    Tomorrow will arrive as each day before it: it will snow or not snow, rain or not rain or be sunny or perhaps some combination. At this time tomorrow darkness will settle in and the clouds, if there are any will shroud the moon if there is any, and, if not the street light outside…

    Lou Faber

  • AUTUMN

      Once again I can imagine it arriving one morning probably unannounced. I won’t see it coming until I find myself in the middle of it, wrapped up within, always knowing that it will slide away without warning and the leaves will fall in regret.

    Lou Faber

  • ON WRITING

      All too often it is just a matter of tossing words into the air and wondering where, or even if, they land, and if they do, what we will find when they finally settle on the paper.

    Lou Faber

  • AD INFINITUM

    When all is said and done and everything that can be written has been, when the questions have all been answered or forgotten, when you grow tired of answers, ask yourself this:  

    Lou Faber

  • A SCREAM

    Then there are the days when extracting words feels like extracting teeth, and there is no Novocaine for either my pen or me. If you hear a scream, just ignore it please, it is only the agony of a poem’s death throes.

    Lou Faber