an old writer and his words

  • SONNET TO A PORTUGUESE

    You came into my life last week, your nameforever locked away inside her mind.My life, she felt, would never be the sameand therefore left all thought of you behind.You loved her, I suppose, that summer nightthen left her, bearing me, until she turnedme over for adoption, that she mightforget the love that you so quickly…

    Lou Faber

  • HOLDING ON

    There comes that one moment for each who liveswhen he steps out onto the silent stage,speaks such of the lines as he recalls, givesa half-intended bow, and in his rage curses his lost youth like over-aged wine,that is now a shadow of its promiseand he knows that somehow this is a signnot of what he…

    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

  • THE FORM OF A POET

    It seems odd driving by Mount Hope Cemetery knowing Adelaide Crapsey’s grave is there. If Basho were there a much smaller grave would do under summer’s sun. Shakespeare is buried in Stratford-Upon-Avon so this can end with twelve lines to spare.

    Lou Faber