Glen Fauré, born November 14, 1948, is an American Poet from Chicago, Illinois. He has worked for many years in law enforcement and also specializes in in custom graphic design for the silk-screen and computing industry, describing himself as "a bit of a software guru and beta tester/tweaker."
This poet's work has appeared in journals such as Seams, Poet's Pen Quarterly, Onionhead Literary Quarterly, Tributary, Rhino, Harpstrings, Oyez Review, and Ariel. He has also given readings in the Chicago area and has been a featured poet on a Public Cable Access program in Chicago.
Mr. Fauré fell in love with poetry when in high school and has been an avid reader since. He believes that vigorous study of the poetic craft is essential for any "would-be poet." His personal favorites include such poets as Edna St. Vincent Millay, Tess Gallagher, ee cummings, Galway Kinnell, Czeslaw Milosz, and W.S. Merwin.
Speaking of poetry in general, Glen says he has always felt that "a poet should identify him/herself as soon as possible...should let the reader immediately become acquainted with the method and integrity of the artist's voice."
A sample of his work follows. Additional works by Mr. Fauré can also be found throughout the pages of A Little Poetry.
The Bell Tower
The last star flickers with intermittent gleams until it vanishes,
a silver thread of moon dissolves
into the liquid textures of the morning sky,
the river twists through snow banks
smoking like a fire in a rain
while the shadows and the silence,
thick blankets over everything,
are folded back by luminescent slender hands.
What an extraordinary illustration when the sun begins to rise
deciding not to make decisions so that every color is obtainable.
I'll choose the nameless ones for poems,
along with the hawk-owl floating in them.
I've been an entire night eluding certain words and phrases
that might challenge me to speak
and so reveal myself for all that I am not.
I asked myself if I'm insane
or just engineering landscapes.
Asked myself if I should die now, while I'm thinking of it,
rather than a less convenient time
some few weeks from now when I lie beneath this tower
on the cool spring moss trading palms and other half-truths
with that season's dark seductive gypsy.
Filmy panes of glass between the real worlds and me turn water
push something out of place,
a situation that unnerves me
like the color of my skin in moonlight,
as if part of me I might not want to lose will be washed away
so that nothing will ever be the same again.
I'm listening to the wind rub against the sleeping iron of the bell,
a singular disturbing note conveyed
watching thin clouds veil the rising sun while my own breath escapes
like a spirit on a voyage. The universe is shifting,
spinning off into a chance illusion even stranger
than the one its hung suspended in till now.
I raise my arm slowly with a sweeping gesture.
Place my hand on the lemon colored circle of the sun.
The mist withdraws. Reluctantly. Another ghost breaks free.
Large angular birds appear on the horizon.
The rocks along the riverbank begin to crack and melt.
The water lifts its voice above a whisper.
Now, having moved a little closer to the light,
some flaw or defect deep inside me is corrected.
Copyright © 1997 Glen Fauré
Contact the author: firstname.lastname@example.org