Tom Faure is a student supervisor and adviser to the student newspaper at the French-American School of New York in Westchester. He graduated this May with a B.A. from Columbia University, where his poems appeared in the undergraduate magazine, the Blue and White. He wrote extensively for the student newspaper, Columbia Daily Spectator, and went on to serve as the paper's editor-in-chief. He really picked the wrong time to graduate, especially given his interest in newspapers, but is sure he'll be able to cash in soon on all that philosophy he studied.
When my tears dried I was blind
Most of the time I listen, I don’t talk. But
I must speak up to disagree with you on one small point:
When you’re in love it isn’t like you are in a dream;
When you’re in love, it is the one you love who is in the dream,
Because you forget they exist—
You forget that chasm between you two, that virile chasm,
And adapt a complicity of point of view.
So I suggest when you’ve found someone like this, someone
To disassemble and dissuade,
To revere and enslave,
Take this love to a quiet place. Ask:
Through which window do you see the child tripping on tree roots older than all the garden’s fallen leaves.
They will say, “Sit down, let me tell you everything.”
From a Parisian refrigerator
Ample time and
Some sense of homesickness—
We illustrate with fridge magnets:
“Who is touching me,
Fine wine and more food,
I can’t remember my own name
I’m glad you’re seeing things my way”
Friends drop by for a beer—
Yes, they enjoy beer in France but it’s piss—
Instant poetry emerges,
With a touch of
An accent and incandescent meaning.
“Listen to the stranger
Without blood on Kitchen dances
We shall give laughter
Poking and kissing and muffin yes Ecstasy”
Language is not a barrier,
It is a refrigerator door, displaying everything
Paris has gained and all that
It doesn’t understand;
“Music loves me!
I’m dressed to impress,
Can I Have some dessert to?”
Then, “Vive l’Amerique” scribbled in Sharpie—
And some expletives too—
After drinking milk from the carton, reading this,
I step out of my small apartment and listen;
Fine tongues stroll by, incomprehensible
Sunshine, and Good Luck
Goodbye, she said,
and left out the back door--
she could only
root root root for the home team,
and i was in a league of my own.
Moving on, I went to the store,
bought toilet paper and booze,
got some money, went to analysis,
and told my shrink the truth.
He was amazed at my inkblots,
took the dollar bills and sleeping bulls as
a sure sign, yes, a pretty damn sure sign--
then prescribed sunshine and good luck.
So I went home and napped,
then put the liquor and toilet paper away,
the sum of all shadows
is a hair shy of the truth.