the king and i

P-K4 (let’s never speak of this)

I haven’t spoken to him in
  twenty years.
He must be old now (as I
  believe I will be soon).
He taught me to play when I
  was just four. To us,
  chess was a means of
  communication (for since
  birth, I believe, my father
  and I have been unsure of our
  relationship).
My mother watched us play,
  taking snapshots in the
  background, always calling it
  a foolish game (and she would
  never learn to play).
She has a picture of me as a
  child with a wooden
  knight clenched between
  my teeth (mocking victory).
I never won, though.
He wouldn’t allow it.
Still I returned to the table
  the next day, because it
  was not abuse.
(It was my oxygen.)
I never learned to respect
  the man for his triumphs.
  Rather, from a young age,
  I struggled to overthrow him
  (as if I had been repressed
  too long).
I look at the letter again (examine
  the paper it was written on,
  even pass my finger over
  the words as if to make sure
  they actually exist).
..P-K4 (let’s never speak of this)

For three entire days, no other
  thoughts enter my mind. I am
  nearly consumed by my past (my
  memories are my own), and the
  aftertaste leaves me confused.
What if I had stayed in that house
  longer, to prove that I could
  be a better player than he?
What if my life had been good
  enough, my limbs strong enough,
  my senses sharp enough?
What if he had accepted my wife?
  what if he had seen his
  grandchild (anytime since she
  has been born)?
(I think for a long time of my
  life since I left.)
(Of my mistakes, and of his.)

P-QB4

Perhaps my tongue remains on
  the stamp too long. (My wife
  is staring at me, holding open
  the mailbox’s slot.)
My heart palpitates and I am not
  sure if it is his clutch I feel,
  or if it ishis embrace. (The
  latter is quite foreign to me.)
I drop the envelope.
And I wait (literally by the mailbox,
  as if by some magic, my father’s
  response will call my name, will
  speak to me).
I have no way of gauging how long it
  will be before I receive his
  next move, though it should not be
  too long, as we do not live far
  from each other (in miles, not
  emotions).
I am curious (beyond comfort) to
  know what he will play. He always
  favored the Russian players. (The
  mechanical way in which they moved
  their pieces mirrored his life.)
He was the only man I knew, who
  during the cold war, cheered for
  the enemy.
I always spoke of Fischer (partially
  to spite my father), and raved
  about his flamboyancy. He was
  a genius (and an a*****e, my father
  would answer spitefully).

Every day (only three), the mailbox
  is empty.  It is as if I am
  searching for his picture there
  (for I wonder what he looks
  like now).
Then one day, he is here.
The same envelope.
The same writing.
(Should I be this excited?)

N-KB3

I scavenge the basement,
  searching for a part of my
  childhood. The old wooden chess
  set had been given to me (by him)
  when I was just twelve.
(I had asked for a set just like
  Fischer favored, and amazingly my
  father had bought it for me.)
(Perhaps I forgave him that day.)
I notice immediately that the board
  is missing, and the memory of its
  demise causes me to laugh.
In a fit of teenage angst, I had
  tried to convince him that chess
  should be liberating, and creative.
He had quickly argued that chess
  was a science, a study to be taken
  with the utmost of severity.
As I was young (I must stress),
  and saw no other way out of the
  conversation, I swiped all of
  the men (of which had been in
  play) off of the table. After
  listening to them strike the tiled
  floor, I picked up the wooden board
  and broke it over my knee. For this
  action, I received only a bruise
  (as he wouldn’t allow himself to
  become agitated enough to react).

I clear the mantle in the living
  room, and (being unsure of myself)
  draw lines in the dust to represent
  the board. I then place the pieces
  in perfect rows.
I do not stop to examine its beauty
  when I am done, instead choosing to
  begin the game.
I place my father’s pawn (I pause and
  wonder when it became his) on K4. I
  then move my pawn to QB4. Finally, his
  knight leaps into play and I have to
  step back. I tug at my bottom lip
  (nervously).
It feels as if he is in my life again,
  and I do not know how to react.
(Should I be smiling so?)

P-K3

It is not the norm, but something
  told me to touch this pawn, and not
  the queen’s. It feels familiar, though
  that could mean anything, since these
  men had been moved this way and that
  for an eternity (till they slept).

P-Q4
PxP
NxP
P-QR3

Our kitchen table lays somewhere
  beneath the mounds of chess books.
  I have dug all of mine out of the
  basement (the smell means they are
  awake again), and the library is
  surprisingly full of such books. 
  I study various Fischer games, and
  attempt to play as he might. (This
  is an ambitious statement, when all
  I mean to say is that I am copying
  the very way that he walks.)

N-QB3
N-QB3
B-K3

He is emulating the Russians, I
  know it.  (And for the first time
  in weeks, I am not just thinking
  about the game, but rather
  the man with whom I am playing.)
I had become caught up in the
  excitement of the men, the papers,
  the dust and the stamps upon the
  envelopes.
I had become engrossed with the
  challenge, the study of the
  movements. (And I realize
  that I must look very much like
  my father now.)
Perhaps it’s because I can’t
  hear him breathing across from
  where I sit that I don’t think
  of him, or envision his face.
It has become like playing a game
  against a computer program
  (challenging, sometimes even
  exciting, yet still lacking
  the true nature of the chess
  men). I had tried to
  convince him of this once.

N-B3 (Stanley Park, by the
  old wooden stump.  Saturday
  the 15th. 2PM. I’ll bring a set.)

Days pass (till we come upon
  this one).
This is incredible (this
  way in which my throat refuses
  way in which my throat refuses
  to swallow).
My eyes know they will see him
  soon (he is coming, I am sure).
  I do not know if my tongue
  will speak to him, and after
  some time (years), I wonder if
  my senses will become my
  own again.
I bought another chess set, so
  that I wouldn’t have to disturb
  the game on my mantle. (I
  dare not touch any of those men
  unless either one of us has
  played.)
Should we continue our game here
  (at Stanley Park), I wondered
  nightly (before sleep would
  force me to forget).
No.
We have something with those
  letters, that I am not willing
  to finish so quickly.
(What if he won the game, would
  he write me again, or would he
  expect me to move first… losers
  play first, he always taught me.)
Could I start another game if
  I lost… again?
(Would I be any less of a man
  if I lost?)

I’ve arranged the chess men
  in their starting squares. (I
  am so afraid of losing, but
  more so, I am terrified of him.)
I hear footsteps in the distance
  (there is no one else nearby),
  and I do not look up from
  the chess men, until the rustling
  is too close to ignore.
(Oh my God.)
(He is so old.)
He cannot be well. His skin is
  loose on his face, and his eyes
  have sunken even further
  (I am sure it is no longer just
  because of me).
He has grown a beard, though the
  hair is sparse, and I can see
  the deep lines upon his cheeks
  (the shadows of a frown are
  forever present, I am sure even
  in darkness).
He had been heavier when I left
  that house. Now his arms do not
  intimidate me (regardless of how
  they will play the game).
He cannot possibly be this old.

He sits on the bench across
  from me (without speaking) and
  with eyes squinting in the sun
  (a nearby tree does not offer
  him the same shade that comforts
  me) moves his queen’s pawn.
He does not remark on the set,
  which is actually quite stunning
  (soldiers). I know he served in
  WW2 (actually killed some men),
  and though he never spoke of it,
  I learned of the many details
  of his time in Hell from my mother.
(I often ignored her, feeling
  I should not know that much
  about him as I did not care.
  However, I must have remembered
  just enough to buy this set,
  assuming he might give a damn,
  that he might feel I actually
  care about him.)
He looks up when it has been too
  long, and I have not moved. His
  eyes are still icy, though skeptical
  now. (Does he actually think I
  might beat him?)
I stare at him still (undaunted
  by his will),
  then move when I am ready.
(I guess it really is only
  a chess set.)

By five o’clock, I realize my
  stomach is empty, and I will
  draw this game if I am careful.
This is more than I have ever
  accomplished against him.
  (I realize at that moment that
  there are so few times that I
  actually refer to him as
  my father.)
We have not spoken but to say;
  "check" and I want so much to
  ask how my mother is doing, but
  my voice is not my own.
I see by five-thirty that he is
  shivering, and though I want
  to offer him the jacket I
  brought along, I am sure he
  would refuse.
(I know the man he used to be
  would refuse.)
(Isn’t that the same.)
We play on, and I can see in his
  eyes that though he is not afraid
  when I reach for my queen, he
  is not so confident when he
  reaches for his own. (He knows
  I will not win. And he knows
  neither will he.)
(What that must be like?)
We continue (in obscurity) for
  several moments, till in fact,
  it is a draw. He raises his eyes,
  and suddenly I become very
  aware of my breathing.
My eyes may have watered (were I
  an emotional man).
He stands, scratches the side of
  his head (this is new), and
  (taking me completely by surprise)
  says; “That was nice.”
He takes a step or two, and (just
  when my heart is aching to tell
  him to come back) turns.
“I would like to play again.” he
  speaks (and I wonder if my voice
  will sound as casual).
I nod, and say; “So would I. (Did
  I just utter those words?) Maybe
  next week?”
He smiles (actually smiles), blinks,
  and I watch every expression on
  his face.
“Yeah.”
And he is going.

B-Q3

I can see him again. In his moves,
  the way in which he writes on this
  paper, even the way the envelope
  rests in my mailbox.
The chess men are alive again.
(Though he barely is.)
(I try not to think of this.)

Again, I think that I know this
  game. I could never memorize games
  like him (and he would remind me of
  this daily… Nimzovich knew that a
  threat was more powerful than its
  attack… Smyslov would not have
  moved so… Gligoric says...)
(That name. It means something.)

The library does not have
  the book I am searching for. I call
  several bookstores, yet no one can
  speak in a language I understand.
“Name of the book?”
“Publisher?”
“Year it was published?”
“Author?”
(Gligoric?)
“Can you spell that?”
I begin scavenging used book
  stores, but none have any
  chess books. (Although there are
  scores of poorly written romance
  novels.)
Then one Saturday morning, while
  visiting various yard sales with
  my wife and daughter, there it is.
  (Do I believe in fate?)
  The cover is nearly torn off,
  the pages have been wet (by a
  defective washing machine I
  am told), and it smells strong.
  Even as such, it is worth my
  nickel. The owners are amazed I
  am buying it (thinking it would
  be thrown out at the end of the
  day with the rest of the trash).
I cannot wait till I get home. I
  tell Janie to drive while I flip
  through the pages (like the
  neurotic son, I am), and the
  smell of each page wafts over
  me unnoticed.
There it is. At the very end of
  the book.
Game twenty-one.
I read the introduction.
(This can’t be it.)
(Yet every play matches.)
(And I can feel it.)
(Why would he do this?)

P-Q4

It is Saturday again, and I
  am going to Stanley Park.
It is not as cold today, though
  I bring my jacket regardless.
  (Perhaps someday I will offer
  it to him, and he will accept.)
He is waiting for me, and this
  almost makes me lose my balance.
  You would think that he would be
  sitting in the tree’s shade, but
  he has saved that seat for me.
  (Should I be grateful?)
I lay the board on the bench,
  and (again startling me) he
  reaches for the men. He
  arranges them along with me,
  and as our hands mingle over
  the table, I see a game (a
  life) played quickly in
  reverse. Our hands nearly touch
  a few times, and it is too close
  for my lungs (they are finding
  it hard to breathe). It is
  almost intimate, and I cannot
  feel myself recoil. Instead, I
  find I am making sweeping
  movements, reaching too far
  for that pawn, and in handing
  him his knight.
(This movement is played in my
  mind slowly, as enlightenments
  often are.  Both our hands
  touching the same piece, then
  I begin letting go, and his
  fingers tighten so as not to
  drop the mounted soldier. In
  handing him the knight, it is
  as if I am giving
  him a piece of my skin.)
(And he accepts.)

We play.
I lose.
Surprisingly, I do not care.
(I think finally, that it is
  only a game.)

PxP
PxP
O-O
B-Q3
NxN
PxN
B-Q4

“How’s Mom?” I ask.
He looks up, (not at all surprised
  that I have spoken). “Fine.”
He moves his king’s bishop.
We have not played at Stanley
  Park for several weeks as he
  has had appointments that he
  chooses not to speak to me
  about (and I do not question, as
  I am not sure that I want to
  know he is dying.)
“That’s good.” I reply, and take
  his rook’s pawn. “Tell her I say
  hi, will you.”
He nods.
We are quiet, and content.

O-O
Q-B3
B-K3
KR-K1

(We have been playing for months
  now, both at Stanley Park, and
  through our letters.)
(How odd that I call them letters,
  when really they are but moves.)

It is raining today, though I
  go to the park regardless (for I
  know he will be there.) He is
  waiting under an umbrella, and he
  comes to my car. We drive to his
  home (and I wonder if it was
  ever mine).
(My God, it’s old too.)
Walking through the front door,
  the air is suddenly much harder
  to swallow (to walk through).
Nothing has changed.
There are pictures of me on
  the walls.
(Have they never stopped
  loving me?)
He arranges my chess set on
  the table (exactly where we
  used to play), and waits for me
  to allow all of this to sink
  into my pores (thereby becoming
  a part of me).
My mother comes out of the
  bedroom, a pair of glasses on
  her face that didn’t used to be
  there. Her eyes water as she
  sees me, and when she holds me,
  she tries very much not to make
  it a big deal, but I can
  feel tears upon my cheek (smell
  their salt).
Her embrace is fierce, and I
  know that she does not want to
  let go again.
(Neither do I.)
“Let him play, Cecile.” he says,
  and she moves away from me
  instantly.
(My touch lingers after her.)
I look into the living room,
  expecting to see his chess set
  on the entertainment center
  (where it used to be kept),
  arranged as mine at home.
But it is not there.
I return my attention to the
  kitchen, and see my mother
  hiding some pill boxes.
(How long now?)
An hour later, she takes a
  picture of us.
(For remembrance.)

P-B4
BxN
QxB
QxQ
PxQ

Why are we playing this game?
What is its purpose?
Do we need to?
He must know that I know. We’re
  just playing someone else’s
  moves (copying what’s already
  written on a page, both of us).
He no longer has to apologize. He
  can stop this charade (under
  the pretext of playing chess).
We are playing the final game in
  the Fischer vs. Spassky, World
  Chess Championship Match in 1972.
  Spassky (the Russian) was the
  world champion going in. (He
  didn’t leave with the same
  title.) Spassky had played
  white, and resigned after his
  forty-first move.
It was the first time Fischer
  became world champion.
(My father challenged me to
  a game he had no intention
  of winning.)
(Trying to become a part of
  my life again, on
  bended knees.)
But why still?
(But then why do I continue? Is
  it because I do want to win
  this game, even if we both
  know I haven’t?)

QR-Q1
KR-Q1
B-K2
QR-N1
P-QN3

Stanley Park.
His coughing is uneasing me,
  though he is trying hard not
  to look ill. Occasionally, I
  see him rubbing his temple and
  I wonder if his mind is troubled
  by thoughts or pains (am I the
  reason for either.)
I feel like asking him why we
  are still playing through the
  mail, but I cannot. The mystery
  of that game has overcome my
  sense of speech.
When he wrote on that first letter
  (let’s never speak of this), it
  seemed to set the tone for the
  game (the entire match). It
  seemed to reach out to me, and
  say; “This is precious.
  Words would destroy me.
  Simply live through me, and
  that should be enough.”
“Maybe you could bring your
  daughter one day.” he says
  (when there is no sound). He
  does not look at me when he
  says this, because he
  must know the expression on
  my face is of complete shock.
Finally, the word find me.
“Sure.”

P-B5
NxP
BxN
RxB
BxP
KxB
RxR
BxP
R-Q7

Again, we do not play for
  some time, and during those
  long weeks (has it been months
  yet), I feel as if something is
  missing from my life. (I have
  never felt this, even when I
  left that house at seventeen.)
Amazingly, he has become an
  important piece of my everyday
  routine. (Thinking of him,
  checking the mailbox, leaning
  against the mantle.)
I wonder how he has time to keep
  writing his moves (Spassky’s),
  and mailing them as if by
  clockwork.
I find out from my mother (she
  called the other day), that he
  is now very ill, and the
  doctors are thinking that it
  will not be very long. The doctors
  are telling him to stay in
  the hospital, but he won’t hear
  of such things. (This doesn’t
  surprise me.) Then she tells me
  that the reason he won’t stay
  there, is because he speaks of
  our Saturday games for the rest
  of the week. We have still not
  become so close that we are
  having beers together on Friday
  nights, or watching sports in
  my living room.
(We never did have that, nor
  will we ever.)
(But we do have something new.
  This camaraderie, if that is
  the right word.)
(This respect.)

BxRP
RxQBP
R-K2
RxR
BxR

I am glad that I did not stop
  this game, because now it is
  all that I have of him. He is
  too ill to come to Stanley Park,
  and I do not know if he is well
  enough for me to visit.
(Rationalizing as such destroys
  my pride.)
When I touch his envelopes, I
  wonder how hard it must be for
  him to write each letter.
(His penmanship has become jagged
  and pale.)
Yet still he plays on.
Why is it so hard for me to
  love this man?
(Or should I say, to show I
  love this man?)

R-Q1
P-R4
R-Q7
B-B4
R-R7
K-N3
K-B1

“He’s in the hospital now.” she
  says (in a voice that suggests
  exhaustion).
“I’m coming.”

My daughter is heavy on my hip,
  and she is (as she often reminds
  me) old enough to walk on her
  own. But I need her close
  to me, to my chest. When she
  looks at me, I need her face to
  be close to mine.
The door to his room is closed,
  and I wonder if we should disrupt
  his privacy.
Cass informs me that we look foolish
  just standing here, so I push the
  door open (with the hand holding
  the chess set).
(The soldiers as my defense.)
How could he look so withered?
I wonder if Cass is frightened (as
  I am).
“This is Grandpa?” she asks.
The man in the bed wakes, and I
  swear to God, I see a tear in
  his left eye.

“Can I move the piece, Daddy?” she
  asks (as she does each time).
“Yes, darlin’.”
When it is his turn, she sees he
  is tired, (and since she is not)
  she asks; “Can I move his, Daddy?”
I shake my head slowly. “Don’t ask
  me.”
She turns to him and tentatively
  c***s her head to the right. He
  smiles, and I wish I had known
  this man longer.
(I wish he had been my father.)
(Wish I could have been his son.)

K-B3

(Then he is gone.)

I stare at our game on the mantle
  and seem lost there for hours.
  Sometimes I smile, and sometimes
  I actually cry.
Janie has dusted only a few times
  (in her own words, she is not
  much of a housekeeper), and each
  time has been with extreme
  care (and only when I was not
  around).  The guidelines in the
  dust are gone now, as I have not
  needed them for some time. (And
  though to anyone else, the
  arrangement of the few men on
  the mantle might seem haphazard,
  I see it as something quite
  serene and real.)
(It is my Stonehenge.)
Everything that we are (were) is
  here, caught within each piece.
  (Even those that have been taken
  in battle.)
A father and son found each other
  after so many years, though
  instead of seeing each other’s
  faces, we saw knights, bishops,
  pawns (and even a king).
I have to smile when I think that
  this game will never end.
(Couldn’t let me win even now,
  I think, and laugh.)
(Even in death you are victor.)

I have not worn this black suit
  in three years. I do not like
  funerals. They make me ill.
My mother has asked me to be a
  pallbearer, but I have refused
  (meekly).
I think she understood when she
  looked into my eyes.
The casket is open, and once
  everyone else has passed (to
  make sure he could die), I
  walk slowly by, and stare at
  his corpse for so long.
(Where is his spirit?)
(What do I believe?)
(Is he here now, lingering in
  the air I breathe?)
(If I reach out, will he caress
  my fingers, and tell me that
  he forgives me for being a bad
  son?)
I begin to cry softly, and the
  only reason I know that I am
  crying is because a tear has
  fallen from my face and struck
  the casket (thunderously).
(I wish I could have known
  you father.)
From my inside breast pocket, I
  pull out two items.
One is a clean, white sheet of
  paper that has the appearance
  of having been ironed. It is
  pristinely folded in three, and
  within is K-K2.
(The game will never end, though
  in my fragmented mind I think
  that perhaps if give him this,
  it may continue someday.)
Second is the white king from
  the wooden set upon my mantle.
  I will never need it again, as
  I will never play against anyone
  else with that set.
I place both these things upon
  his chest, and my hands remain
  upon his body for such time
  (while still more tears
  dehydrate me).
Good-bye, father.
(I think I’ll love you now.)
(As it is safe to do so.)

P-KN4

My hands shaking, I cry over
  the letter. He must have sent
  it just before he passed.
(You have to wonder how God
  thinks.)
Stonelike, I sit in my chair,
  and stare at this page, these
  letters. I am so tired, and so
  close my eyes. (Perhaps in
  sleeping, I will see him, to
  continue our game, but instead
  I have nightmares, and wake
  in a cold sweat.)
The letter and envelope clutched
  in my fist, I approach the mantle,
  and tentatively reach for
  his pawn.
(But how will we be able to
  continue after this?)
I am so tired.

It is Saturday, and having had
  a few days to rest, my mind
  seems not quite so cloudy. In
  fact, I have had an idea (in
  between sleep and waking).
I walk briskly to the mantle
  (as I am afraid that if I think
  too much, I will not do this).
Swiftly, I grab the remaining
  pieces in play, and carefully
  place them in my coat pocket.
The drive to Stanley Park allows
  too much time for thought (so
  I keep the music loud, and sing
  so as not to use my mind).
Once there, I walk to the bench
  where we sat, and take the men
  out of my pocket. With a
  sudden clarity, I place them
  where they belong, and they are
  indeed beautiful.
All that is missing is the king.
(Are you here, Father?)
I will have to imagine his
  presence (both across from me
  and upon the bench, among
  the white men).
I know each remaining move by
  heart.
I am reaching for my pawn to
  move to B4, when suddenly the
  king does appear on the
  board. (A hand holds it.)
I cannot seem to be able to
  shift my focus away from that
  king. (It is alive.)
My mind cannot process this
  at its normal rate of
  comprehension.
Finally, I am staring at the
  hand, the wedding band
  (my mother’s).
I look up, and she stands
  only for a moment before
  sitting where my father’s
  spirit is.
Still, I cannot speak.
My hand (which has been
  holding the pawn), rests
  on B4.
Without so much as a shift
  in glance, my mother takes my
  pawn with one of my father’s
  pawns (and it is then that I
  realize they were never my
  father’s, but rather hers.)
“It was you?” I whisper.
She smiles as if she has all
  the answers, and drops her
  head (then raises her eyes
  to meet mine).
“You needed each other.” she
  says. “He was dying. A man
  needs a father, even one
  who is dead.”
(She brought us together before
  he died.)
(Perhaps before I did.)
As amazing as all of this is,
  my mind still tries to dissect
  it.
“But you don’t even know how to
  play?”
She smiles (it is a grandmother’s
  smile), and says; “I watched you
  both play since you were a child.
  In the same way that a mother
  would cheer for her son at a
  softball game, I cheered for
  you… in my own quiet way. And
  when you left, all I had were
  those memories to save my sanity.”
She pauses.
“It’s all I’ve ever known,
  this game.”
We stare at each other.
I move my pawn to B3.
She slides her bishop to N8.

P-R3
K-N3
K-Q3
K-B3
R-R8
K-N2
K-K4
B-K6
K-B5
B-Q7
R-QN8
B-K6
R-N7
B-B4
R-R7
B-K6
P-R4
B-Q7
White resigns.

I loved you, Father.

Reviews

[H]

I've played chess before. But it's never held any meaning for me.

This poem however, holds emotion and meaning and experience.

I enjoyed reading it and the story that came with it.

[William James McPhee]

Thank you kindly Jean.

I used to perform this piece at various events several years ago. It took about 45 minutes to perform, and I would invest of myself while performing (so as not to simply "read" the piece). If read properly, I could make myself cry at the end, and inevitably, there would always be someone crying in the audience as well.

My best read was when I saw a man crying in the audience. That felt good, to stir someone's emotions so much.

[Jean P. Prudhomme]

Not a chess player but I can appreciate a good write when I see it. This is simply an amazing poem, my friend. I couldn't stop reading it.