an old writer and his words

  • SONG OF THE UNIVERSE

    It was a certain rhythm that he lovedhe felt it in total silence, it fadedin the presence of sound, a doumbekof the soul he would describe it. He remembered how it was beforetheir one God rendered him and his kindmere mythological creatures fit onlyfor poetry and dusty library shelves. He would have his revenge some…

    Lou Faber

  • CHATTER

    The cat tells me thatlong after we have goneto bed for the night shehears the argumentsof the authors of the bookslining our living room shelves. The poets, she says, quibbleover rhyme and meter, claimthis one is academic, thatone merely skilled in doggerel. And don’t, she adds, get herstarted on the Buddhistauthors, who argue endlesslyover their…

    Lou Faber

  • UNDER THE WEIGHT

    My shelves grow heavy with volumes of words I wish I had written, neatly bound up in books that stare at me, at once bidding me welcome and challenging me to enter. One shelf is set aside for books of pages, blank, on which I have written each day now for three and a half…

    Lou Faber

  • BOOKSHOP

      Charing Cross Road booksellers woven amid theatres cramped sagging shelves an out of print Christine Evans, slim, collected works of those long forgotten never noticed a damp chill enfolds old leather as the door opens and shuts on a late February. Morning, my purchases sink in the plastic bag dancing as I walk to…

    Lou Faber