The Theatre of War
I take it for granted now, but some years ago the idea of playing chess with someone from Baku, Brisbane or Buenos Aires without either player leaving the comfort of his own home would have bordered on the fantastic. The internet has shrunk many worlds and the world of chess is no exception. Of course, dyed-in-the-wool aesthetes scoff at this method, advocating no substitute for two opponents sitting at a chess club table hunched over a surreal battlefield. My experience of chess clubs, however, is a cold smoke-fugged room with beer-sodden laminate tables and a hundred decibels of ‘Agadoo’ vibrating through the adjoining wall. Occasionally, all the chess clubs merged at a social club to play ‘speed’ chess. This involved a vast number of boards, a man with a microphone and a buzzer which could be set to five or ten seconds. When the buzzer sounded, you had to move, or lose by default. Not for the fainthearted. It was the memory of this event which prompted the following poem.
ENDGAME
They’re here again to face the boards
Their demons and the old time lords
To wage wars from Olympian heights
All the blacks versus all the whites
From every corner and every street
Cerebral prophets plan defeat
Reality now out of bounds
A deathly buzz, the only sound
At second buzz the battles begin
Forty two soldiers clatter in
Three on horseback make their stand
Practised usurpers in the promised land
Dark days and dark knights play
Black-fatigued infantry to the affray
Paranoid pawns proffer sound defence
Whilst cautious clergy seek recompense
Ruy Lopez, alas, no longer in vogue
The old Sicilian could be the rogue
Exponents of Alekhine reach for the moon
But the Giuoco Piano’s still in tune
Middlegame mayhem exacts its price
The moment has come for sacrifice
No time to think, no time to wait
For the weak to hyperventilate
Kings look furtively from castles in air
With queenside rooks in quiet despair
When the death toll hits accepted time
And endgame tactics turn to crime
As ice-queens lie in their royal graves
The Bastille’s stormed by anarchic braves
One passed pawn has a ticket to ride
Reaching rank eight, just to get fried
The kings of cool stand in abject fear
Hemmed in and helpless in their royal gear
Olympians make the designated sign
Nothing to do but sigh and resign
“All stop!” shouts the soulless breaker of dreams
Sweat glands bursting at the seams
Adjudications mix with tales of woe
That was the first. Another six to go
