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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.

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