an old writer and his words

  • SUNDAY NIGHT

    It is almost midnight.If this was Seoul, the Hilton,I could walk down the hillto Namdaeman Marketand wander around the shopsthe smell of the city, of pigs headssimmering in giant caldrons,fish lying on beds of melting iceand look at silk and stainlessflatware, watches and celendoncasting its faint green glowin the fluorescent night,but it is Virginia and…

    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

  • ON LANDING

    They have a youth that you think should make you envious, poured into clothing that would be a second skin, if skin were silk and polyester, patterned tights hair ironed straight, colored highlights and you still recall when this what a fascinated you, when you would have found it alluring. You probe the corners of…

    Lou Faber