The wizard of riga
The Wizard of Riga
Sits in a hospital bed in Moscow.
Mikhail "Misha" Tal.
The last of the romantics.
Ponders on his fate.
He ponders not on if,
The one hundred one- after- another
Lit lighter less from the butt of the last
Chain-smoking
Cigarettes,
Or the bottle of vodka,
Or the morphine armed syringe scar,
A day habits,
Caused the homunculus claws of Cancer,
To scrape through his lungs.
As he lies in Soviet-state-starched pajamas,
A drip barely trying to leak life back into him.
But the ticking of a clock.
Blitz chess! Five minutes apiece.
The Moscow open which would become
His memorial tournament.
When the King,
The wizard of Riga,
Lay his head
Down on the board,
Will start in three hours.
So he "castles" and swaps his
Soviet-state-starched pyjamas,
For his grandmaster suit
And walks out of the Hospital.
None of his comrades
Raise eyebrows or protest
At his presence.
They know it is here
In this sixty-four squared world,
That you belong to.
Where pawns sacrifice themselves in five-year plans,
Bishops move in parallel universes
Knights Kung Fu leap from color to color,
Rooks double point at kings,
Like thermonuclear inter ballistic missiles
In their Silos.
The queen
Whose beauty
As a child,
Made Tal dream of stealing her home
In his pocket,
But he could never bring himself
To defile her honor
With queen knapping.
When Kasparov sits before him
In a posh western suit, (Italian?)
With a sheen of arrogance,
"J'adoube," his rival says,
And screws each piece into position
Before replying 1. E5.
Tal looks back into younger eyes,
(He broke your record for youngest world champion)
With his own stare
Which glares
"I beat Botvinnik
(your teacher)
In his prime!
I won't be scared of a glasnost scallywag like you.
I am no more scared of you,
Than the jealous Cuban boyfriend
Who tangoed with Tal,
Rum bottle in hand."
That adventure
Danced away your travel rights
For two years.
Revenge for thrashing El Che
In a simultaneous,
And making a court jester
Of a "Valued Soviet ally."
And Tal's Gandalf grey
Wizard's eyes scream
"Thou shalt not pass!"
Tick tock goes the clocks.
Kasparov's cool veneer
Is sheened with sweat.
His ties askew. (No, not Italian, Turkish imitation?)
Tal's pieces are "en prise"
But alive and everywhere,
Hunting the champion's king.
Tick tock, tick tock,
The king lays his head on the board,
A life, well-lived, well played.
A victory on the eve of the end.
Bạn đang đọc truyện trên: Truyen247.Pro