At Chess

This week's poem, as always, with a touch of Aphantasia.

I could not play at chess,
blindfolded, like the masters,
certain of the board they held in their mind,
despite the coarse-woven cloth
scratching at each temple.

I need to see the battle, the war.
I need to see lines of pawns
as they sneer at each other
and make sure the knives on their belts
are loose in their sheaths, ready.
I need to see hooves stamp and spark,
and dust driven high in the air.
See tall towers grin downward
while dark birds caw above and
Holy men search for old words.
Look through unfathomable faces.
Immobile nobility.
All of it.
I need to see all of this.
So I can know how to move.

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Thank you for reading. Here’s another poem.

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My initial post has more about Aphantasia. Have a look, and the poems might make a different kind of sense.

Glimpses at the Dark

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Please share this with any aphants you might have in your life. I am highly curious to know if any of this resonates with others whose mind’s eyes are dark.

—Alex

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Glimpses at the Dark can be delivered every week.