The Card Game
"If you’re a certain kind of reader, with a certain kind of brain, you’re always on the lookout for the poem that will save your life." Parker, James. “The Greatest Poet Alive.” The feral genius of Australia’s Les Murray. The Atlantic, https://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/2016/05/the-greatest-poet-alive/476376/.
There the Magistrate sat, for a very long time, reviewing the cards they were dealt. It had been some hours before finally committing and sitting in on this round and the moment was savored. It wasn't so much looking to win or even to strategize for any series of wins nor even for the money, that the Magistrate sat for this game. It was to look at the cards, those beautiful cards, ornate, faced with gold leaf, azure blues, deep rich yellows and greens, alluring blacks, all noticeable from casual observance in that gambling hall. There was more to these cards, these particular cards, on this day and this game at this hour. The cards were works of art, hand made, not mass produced, which added an aura (that ever problematic aura) to the game. This particular poker game brought players in because of the qualities of those cards, that particular deck, which emerged quite at random and without explanation. The cards outshined the game. It's not that there wasn't still a thrill to the pursuit of winning and the accompanying purse, now heaping noticeably on the deep green velvet top, there was. It's just that the particular crowd that had gathered and the presence of that deck of playing cards overtook the central pursuit of the game. The intentions had changed and with it, the very air of the game now shifted to the beauty and presence of those cards. Only the dull of spirit and the dimwitted of heart remained unaltered and sat oogling the heap. The conditions appeared that day, for whatever reason, like an eclipse of the moon and shifted the view, like a refraction of light at the edge of a glass, now on prominent display to the present crowd and sitting players. At the table the Magistrate focused intently, slowly, studying the cards, captured by them, without apparent care to strategy or the society that surrounded them. Either the cards or the will of their admirers transformed the conditions of play. It held the kind of power that could not be dispelled by a strict despotic spirit blurting, "oh get on with it already, they're just damn cards." Nor to the addiction of gamblers, drunken, pacing the floors, awaiting impatiently for conclusions and results. An unsee-able connection, like a strong chemical bond, held fast to the center of that game, as the cards cycle through.
To the Magistrate,
The king of diamonds came first,
Presented himself in robes of red and blue, gold and white, blue and black,
adorned with fringes, bejeweled and decorated.
Soft and perfect curved edges of garments. Touches of pressure with hints of graphite.
Symmetrical brightness of those diamonds almost floating off the surface and rich to a color not easily placed, not rose (but rose), not sapphire (but sapphire), not metallic nor muted, not lipstick but bold, each one, each diamond, had a hint of uniqueness, a shift of symmetric and genuine, original, precision.
The King's hand extended in a static gesture of peace, surrounded by beauty, while the other held quick to a sharpened halberd, acting and looking sometimes as a cane or a knife (Cain and a knife).
Next came the nine, of clubs, as an unrefined adage or a decorative arch,
adorned with grape vines out of season on a path to the mausoleum.
It sat there unwanted and plain, just roots from the soil without fruit,
awaiting a season or some reason to engage.
Humps of clovers, rich black with sport, if held to the angled light could make out the sheen edges of pressure from the line of a pen.
Still it was hopeful for it to be not quite a low number and to have a role in the garden,
something sweet to remember, as it was out of season, if you were one to recall (and engaged so long).
Followed the hearts, a six, in gorgeous flowing shapes, barely a corner, viscous in action, like pools of blood dispersing in water.
Flowing, those sixes, symmetrical, dangerous in beauty, but powerless without it's place in a flush or along side it's kind, secret or plain.
The six maligns and gathers, distracts with worry, without an edge or a threat save for its seductions of immanence, a subdued present fury.
The six of hearts in the middle and the third to present, brought questions and something of an uncertain air, not yet placed nor yet settled, to be called equal and fair.
The reds recalled the king, for at moments the hues shared a similar sheen. It wasn't much consequence to think not to want for the card held such beauty it glowed a purposeful want.
Arrived next, king of hearts, proud, luxurious and certain,
Giving new presence of connection with the six in their scarlet connection, velvet and weighted.
The king of hearts dressed with a court sword in hand, pressed to the nape, flat-sided, relaxed, alert, awake.
Grasping his cloak with a refined hand of ease, the other encased in a golden gauntlet of warning and hearts, again hearts, undeniable, uncertain, radiant, desirable.
The two kings in the room cleared any reproach of the six and the nine, both kings so adorned, a presence and splendor, courtly and strong, with no company to relinquish, no daring to perform.
The Knave then followed, also of hearts, with good process and standing.
leaving few to question, a positive presence, a guide, a friend. Good known, stout Jack, dressed just as the king, and courtly the same, holding an ax in one hand, the other a pen.
In fact, if one didn't know, didn't see the officers gate, you might say this card could be a King, the feeling at least was something the same.
This hand was the first and more followed suit. Played out in slight time delay, from inspired spectacle to a usual spread, until the ornate cards cycled through. The lights in the parlor changed without conscious from a soft warm pleasant pale to a harshening flicker of aging fluorescents. The money exchanged hands to grunts and foul mood against equal good cheer as the heap in the center grew and decreased like deep breaths of a great sleeping bear. The drinking glass turned plastic with yellowing pale. The carpet revealed it's cigarette stains. The pleasant perfumes turned to hints of body odor. The music turned shrill and misplaced toward a soft winter feather. The magistrate stood and left without turning back, softly rubbing his fingers, recalling the fold, in cracked leather boots and stained shirt collar unbuttoned with a loose cheap tie. Out through the doors and into the night he walked along the fog mist of the pier, on a dark winters night, breathing the cold air, to the budget hotel two blocks in, stopping briefly to buy a coffee at the Seven Eleven.
There the Magistrate sat, for a very long time, reviewing the cards they were dealt. It had been some hours before finally committing and sitting in on this round and the moment was savored. It wasn't so much looking to win or even to strategize for any series of wins nor even for the money, that the Magistrate sat for this game. It was to look at the cards, those beautiful cards, ornate, faced with gold leaf, azure blues, deep rich yellows and greens, alluring blacks, all noticeable from casual observance in that gambling hall. There was more to these cards, these particular cards, on this day and this game at this hour. The cards were works of art, hand made, not mass produced, which added an aura (that ever problematic aura) to the game. This particular poker game brought players in because of the qualities of those cards, that particular deck, which emerged quite at random and without explanation. The cards outshined the game. It's not that there wasn't still a thrill to the pursuit of winning and the accompanying purse, now heaping noticeably on the deep green velvet top, there was. It's just that the particular crowd that had gathered and the presence of that deck of playing cards overtook the central pursuit of the game. The intentions had changed and with it, the very air of the game now shifted to the beauty and presence of those cards. Only the dull of spirit and the dimwitted of heart remained unaltered and sat oogling the heap. The conditions appeared that day, for whatever reason, like an eclipse of the moon and shifted the view, like a refraction of light at the edge of a glass, now on prominent display to the present crowd and sitting players. At the table the Magistrate focused intently, slowly, studying the cards, captured by them, without apparent care to strategy or the society that surrounded them. Either the cards or the will of their admirers transformed the conditions of play. It held the kind of power that could not be dispelled by a strict despotic spirit blurting, "oh get on with it already, they're just damn cards." Nor to the addiction of gamblers, drunken, pacing the floors, awaiting impatiently for conclusions and results. An unsee-able connection, like a strong chemical bond, held fast to the center of that game, as the cards cycle through.
To the Magistrate,
The king of diamonds came first,
Presented himself in robes of red and blue, gold and white, blue and black,
adorned with fringes, bejeweled and decorated.
Soft and perfect curved edges of garments. Touches of pressure with hints of graphite.
Symmetrical brightness of those diamonds almost floating off the surface and rich to a color not easily placed, not rose (but rose), not sapphire (but sapphire), not metallic nor muted, not lipstick but bold, each one, each diamond, had a hint of uniqueness, a shift of symmetric and genuine, original, precision.
The King's hand extended in a static gesture of peace, surrounded by beauty, while the other held quick to a sharpened halberd, acting and looking sometimes as a cane or a knife (Cain and a knife).
Next came the nine, of clubs, as an unrefined adage or a decorative arch,
adorned with grape vines out of season on a path to the mausoleum.
It sat there unwanted and plain, just roots from the soil without fruit,
awaiting a season or some reason to engage.
Humps of clovers, rich black with sport, if held to the angled light could make out the sheen edges of pressure from the line of a pen.
Still it was hopeful for it to be not quite a low number and to have a role in the garden,
something sweet to remember, as it was out of season, if you were one to recall (and engaged so long).
Followed the hearts, a six, in gorgeous flowing shapes, barely a corner, viscous in action, like pools of blood dispersing in water.
Flowing, those sixes, symmetrical, dangerous in beauty, but powerless without it's place in a flush or along side it's kind, secret or plain.
The six maligns and gathers, distracts with worry, without an edge or a threat save for its seductions of immanence, a subdued present fury.
The six of hearts in the middle and the third to present, brought questions and something of an uncertain air, not yet placed nor yet settled, to be called equal and fair.
The reds recalled the king, for at moments the hues shared a similar sheen. It wasn't much consequence to think not to want for the card held such beauty it glowed a purposeful want.
Arrived next, king of hearts, proud, luxurious and certain,
Giving new presence of connection with the six in their scarlet connection, velvet and weighted.
The king of hearts dressed with a court sword in hand, pressed to the nape, flat-sided, relaxed, alert, awake.
Grasping his cloak with a refined hand of ease, the other encased in a golden gauntlet of warning and hearts, again hearts, undeniable, uncertain, radiant, desirable.
The two kings in the room cleared any reproach of the six and the nine, both kings so adorned, a presence and splendor, courtly and strong, with no company to relinquish, no daring to perform.
The Knave then followed, also of hearts, with good process and standing.
leaving few to question, a positive presence, a guide, a friend. Good known, stout Jack, dressed just as the king, and courtly the same, holding an ax in one hand, the other a pen.
In fact, if one didn't know, didn't see the officers gate, you might say this card could be a King, the feeling at least was something the same.
This hand was the first and more followed suit. Played out in slight time delay, from inspired spectacle to a usual spread, until the ornate cards cycled through. The lights in the parlor changed without conscious from a soft warm pleasant pale to a harshening flicker of aging fluorescents. The money exchanged hands to grunts and foul mood against equal good cheer as the heap in the center grew and decreased like deep breaths of a great sleeping bear. The drinking glass turned plastic with yellowing pale. The carpet revealed it's cigarette stains. The pleasant perfumes turned to hints of body odor. The music turned shrill and misplaced toward a soft winter feather. The magistrate stood and left without turning back, softly rubbing his fingers, recalling the fold, in cracked leather boots and stained shirt collar unbuttoned with a loose cheap tie. Out through the doors and into the night he walked along the fog mist of the pier, on a dark winters night, breathing the cold air, to the budget hotel two blocks in, stopping briefly to buy a coffee at the Seven Eleven.
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| Velázquez, Diego. Portrait of Pablo de Valladolid, a court fool of Philip IV. circa 1635. Museo del Prado, Wikimedia Commons. |
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