The Chess Game Poem by Mark R Slaughter

To see that regal chessboard stand -
Prominent, eminent, historically grand;
Refined in polished real-wood veneer,
Exuding class for all to revere.

But of a moment, the board stood incomplete -
No fighting ranks prepared to meet.
No chessmen stood, enticing war,
To challenge and strategise, for points to score.

Now herald the players, unleashing their men -
Staunton of course, deployed with aplomb.
The doughty queens now ready to stride,
Primed for action; taught with pride.

White strikes! A pawn runs out.
Black retorts, to match with clout!
King's knight responds, standing his ground.
So Black - determined -considers his round.

The pause is short - his bishop attacks.
White sits pensive, mulling his tracks.
The opening plan now truly played,
Middle-game tactics drive the crusade.

The players settle, planning their ploys,
Though hide their fears with manly poise.
Cerebral ardour tautens nerves,
Insidiously draining on vital reserves.

Could Black now gain an upper hand
To steal the game and take command?
The board is dripping with bloody affray,
And tension stirs to heighten the play.

But with the foes in violent flurries,
Battling hard against their worries,
White - drawing on years of crafting his game -
Renders a move of great acclaim!

The audience smiles - Black is lampooned!
He now must heal this mental wound -
For pride is scarred and troops laid bare.
A recovery plan must Black prepare.

And though he tries to change his track,
All moves are trounced in flying attack.
The crippled king must face his doom,
As pungent death imbues the room.

Beads of sweat reveal his fate:
The binding path to certain mate. So
Black now humbled with vicious sting,
Resigns his fight, and tips his king.

Players stand, shake, and retire
As White now beams with clever fire.
The audience drowns in technical chat…
Look, Black has lost - and that is that!




Copyright © Mark Raymond Slaughter 2009
All rights reserved