Haibun: History

By | 6 November 2015


And what of the cessations
the early heart never saw? Saying nothing
of the quick brown typist nor with curly hair
if possible. It does not so become him these
days, that constant glow, the moments
here of silence there of tacit after-words.
Pull free instead the door inside the door
pull free the view a page down with the
glimpse of her (just faintly underlined) as
far as, still, so far his dreams once more
these distant, beckoning visions of will be
stretched across the oblong frame. Nothing
likely soon enough who sees his studio,
his single bed, how apt.

He moving back to
the misery aspect of
the lyric poem.


Drift back to Ada
the imagined palindromic act.
His face pressed hard against the
she reflection—a mirror once
pertaining to his life. He taken back
again to poetry words coming
back to him, like has to be, like
words that lie beneath him pressing
forward gently in a not too quickly
saddened love. She nestling in
the countryside accelerator.
The poem, yes. Confessions in
a half-filled room. A superfluity
of like and as.

Not like now, those days—
long conversations in smoke.
Blue-grey exchanges.


He repositions himself,
ahem, bound with Anna’s hair.
Your hair, he says, is wicked, as
they say. In fact it’s been a wicked
evening. Or as they used to say
a the evening. Though you being
young may not remember as,
these days, no-one recalls Ava’s
feather trick. But take my word, the the
was the look then, among the attributes
of the 1960s. She has the the the girl
embodying the article as once did
the pronoun it and he suddenly unsure—
was his, the his?

Had she ruined him?
Was that it? Who had seen life
come to him, poor man?


And then the sudden
Eve idea—a they. And then
the sudden library. A room
whose shelves hold an equivalence
of silver-fish. So where does he
stand now? A Nightwood caught
out too late for the truly Modern?
Hears himself, says, I can only
say that I had the, then feared the,
was brought low by the. His hopes,
who gave his … his own, something
from the anything. The machine
silent again and the little his
fallen just like that.

More so than ever
it had vanished. Everything
suddenly ago.


with she already late, having
‘slept’ till three because of ‘dancing’.
He realising too late he was yet again
on a beginning he should not have been.
Words come to him from earlier speeches
words like has to be, words that lie beneath,
laid bare, pressing forward, an example of,
a case of. With the forgotten silverfish
well into Remembrance of Things Past
and she too young to remember. Voices
calling from memory an imagination of
found her at the nothing of had. Besides.
His answer still that she the tiny noise
hidden in the ball of twine.

These imaginings
linked together long enough
to become history.

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