|
|
|
|
|
|
|
STALEMATE |
|
|
Karl Schlechter, 1874-1918 |
|
| I want to stroll with Karl Schlechter |
 |
| in nineteen-hundred, down a street of stone | |
| the sun's turned to honey. From some window | |
| a piano's playing slow, and Karl's sad eyes | |
| kindle a little. I ask about his chess, | |
| why he always offers a draw, | |
| and he shrugs. White pigeons gurr | |
| on the sills. "I hate that look in men's eyes | |
| when they lose." I love him. We buy cherries | |
| from a stall, morellos, dark, half-bitter, | |
| and feed them to each other. I kiss him, | |
| tasting them in his mouth. I want to tell him | |
| "Karl, you die starving, at forty-four, | |
| and you could be world champion. Play to win." | |
| But then he wouldn't be who he is, | |
| and I wouldn't come all the way | |
| from the next century to hold hands | |
| with the drawing master, watching | |
| the light slant, hearing pigeons hush, | |
| one by one, into sleep. Gentleman; gentle man | |
|
SHEENAGH PUGH |
|
|
|
|
| Sheenagh Pugh is an award winning poet and novelist from Wales. She also teaches creative writing at the University of Glamorgan You can find her biography and some of her poems at: |
