Endgame
Dec 14 2013


In the ancient game of chess,
with its squares within a square
and strict rules of engagement,
I always pictured the King
as an infirm old man,
pale, and stuttering.
Who can only shuffle
side-to-side,
dithering, indecisively
as the noose slowly tightens.
Whose imperious Queen
is the power behind the throne.

Towering, in the back row
they can see across the moat
of no-man's-land,
like the blasted mud
in the war to end all war.
Watch sacrificial pawns

marching off to slaughter,

a tactical loss, for the greater good.
See the black knight, hurtling obstacles,
his rearing steed

on pounding hoofs.
Glimpse slippery bishops, who act at a distance

playing the angles, cutting diagonals,

sycophants

to the royal pair.

And stalwart rooks

who anchor the square,

steadily advance

in ranks and rows.

In the endgame
you know you're done.
Some graciously concede,
while others fight
to certain defeat,

drawing blood.

The King as exposed
as the naked emperor,

goose-bumped, defenceless;

his fallen Queen
deserted court.

In the real world
the game is rigged, the rules shift.
You learn to improvise,
and most things end
in indecision.
But in the checkerboard world
of black and white,
order prevails
for as long as you play.

Where impotent Kings
never die.
And fallen pieces
come back to life.

A reference to Beckett's Endgame came up, and I thought I'd play around with the word.

In life, the endgame is never clear. This is the consolation and attraction of a game like chess: the fixed geometry of its surface; the inviolability of its rules. And the lack of consequence, if you don't count the loser's bruised ego.

I could hardly talk about chess without commenting on its unexpected hierarchy, which I've always found a little odd: that this venerable game, this surrogate of manly war, should be built around a subversively feminist Queen and a relatively helpless King. And, of course, I couldn't resist my usual snarky shot at religion: those slippery bishops, who play the angles and operate manipulatively, invisibly. I also didn't want to talk about a sanitized version of war without talking about the real thing, which explains the reference to the stalemated trench warfare of the 1st World War. "Stalemate", of course, is an ideal word for a poem about chess. Unfortunately, I didn't find a way to slip it in.