Learning Poem by Don Pearson

Learning



(For my mentors, in memory of Mr. S. N. Hancock)

They have known one another
for thirty years.
The younger man knows little
Of the older’s life, his service,
Not much at all, in truth.
The older man is unaware
Of the younger’s renown.
He has wondered, idly,
Whether he might be
A musician or an artist.

In this abstracted world,
Overlooking the kingdoms
Of the plain,
They share a friendship
born through their enmity.
In their real lives
Each could ask of the other.
It would not be rebuffed,
Even welcomed,
But it has never arisen.
They know enough.
Each respects
The other’s strengths,
Constantly probes to
Exploit any weakness.

Once a week,
For hours at a time,
They have faced one another
Seldom speaking, hardly looking.
Their communication is sufficient.
It is actuated by their hands,
Mediated through the movement of
Simply-carved wooden pieces,
Regulated by time-honoured rules,
Restricted by a time-stealing clock.
These silent conversations are recorded,
By one, neatly, almost elaborately,
On a piece of paper
And by the other, in his book,
In a hasty scrawl.

Nothing has been taught directly.
Only through defeat,
Over several years,
Did the younger absorb
technique, strategy, tactics,
patience, gentleness, spirit,
And the desire
To pass them on.
He sits opposite
His now-elderly friend,
Still admiring but equal,
Over the board.

A king is overthrown.
Looks are exchanged.
The slightest of nods
Acknowledges prowess.
There is a handshake,
A farewell.

Jan 2008

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