an old writer and his words

  • NOT COUNTING

    I have had two,although the first is longforgotten, so perhaps itno longer counts, itcertainly didn’t to her,announcing its endlike the conductorof a train running lateon the mainline to sadness. Perhaps I have not forgottenbut all I see is myselfstanding alone, intoningwords to which the crowdintently listens, much likethe audience at a readingby a lesser known…

    Lou Faber

  • THE POET?

    He stood in front of the classin a more than half empty lecture halland leaned into the podium, almost smiling. He was here, a real poet, half famousby his own reckoning, totally so by ourssince he was rumpled, as a poet ought,his sport coat tweedy and ill fitting. Still we harbored some doubts,for there was…

    Lou Faber

  • A LESSON TO TEACH

    This is what I would tell my sons:“You came from an ancient people,a heritage of poetsand tailors, or thievesand blasphemers,of callous menand slaughtered children.I would give you these books,written by God, some have said,although I am doubtfulbut driven by Erato, without doubt.” This is what I would tell my sons:“I didn’t go to war —there were so many…

    Lou Faber

  • OLD SCHOOL

    How much better off would we beif every poet and wanna be werecompelled to write using only paperand a quill pen dipped regularlyinto a small glass inkwell? You must wonder if we would seemore elegance, villanelles, sonnets,and the other forms now lying jumbledin the great literary waste bin. What would we discover if leftto our…

    Lou Faber

  • THINGS TO COME

    One morning last week I decidedto plant myself at a busy intersectionand begin reading poetry, mostlymy own, I have to admit. I was generally ignored, my usualstate, and that sadly of most poets,when a scruffy, bearded young manset up easel and paint next to me. The morning seemed to relishthe stillness of this urban way…

    Lou Faber

  • IN SEARCH

    En route to Buddhism, I must admit I stopped at numerous philosophical way-stations, none quite as equipped as I would desire and so I moved on. Buddhism was my solution, no demands other than I be present, knowing I had no real choice but to do so, all in the recognition of that fact. I…

    Lou Faber

  • ELEGY FOR A POET

    (for Allen Ginsburg) You died quietly in your bed friends gathered around the cars and buses of the city clattering out a Kaddish to a God you had long ago dismissed as irrelevant. We would have expected your to howl, to decry the unfairness of it all, but you merely said it is time, and…

    Lou Faber

  • NAME THAT TUNE

    He says, “I write songs without music, my head Is a libretto warehouse.” She says, “You string words like random beads, no two strands the same.” He says, “Symmetry is for those with linear minds who can’t see out of the tunnel.” She says, “Dysentery, verbal, is a disease to be avoided particularly by poets.”…

    Lou Faber

  • FUTURE HISTORY

    The history of modern literature, at least to those who purport to create it, is inextricably tied up with technology. The quill and inkwell ceded only reluctantly to the fountain pen and ballpoint. Foolscap was affixed to corkboard by countless pushpins, but one wasn’t a teal writer until one stuck in the sole of your…

    Lou Faber

  • NEXT QUESTION

    It was a short questionnaire, and he wasn’t sure why they had chosen him to answer, or for that matter, who they were. He was one to follow rules, so he sat down to complete it, they, whoever they were, said it would only take fifteen minutes. “Who is the one poet you would want…

    Lou Faber