Poem of the Day: "Reykjavik Express" by John Reinhart, Frequent Contributor

Reykjavik Express

John Reinhart

a bastard son from a bastard land, moored on foreign shores by fortuitous accident, bent on victory against eastern tigers, salivating over riches yet unimagined in the west…

Alexander, the great westernizer, knew

that no battle need be fought

against the wind – Bobby knew

his terms, his opening salvos

prepared in secret, in delays,

in feints; by dealing first

in smoke, he could stoke the fires,

dip the arrows to weaken the ramparts,

dismantle the walls stone by stone

Soviets

watched the action

on technicolor TV sets,

on telescopes, on kaleidoscopes

picked up second hand in Yugoslavia

- everyone saw it, the slow motion

train wreck in Reykjavik

Where was Spassky, meant to be the driver?

All signals said go, the fires stoked,

smoke billowing  across tundra, Spassky

left standing on the platform

studying

schedules

Poet's Notes:  1972. Iceland. The date and place spell chess to Americans. In the midst of a cold war, two combatants engaged in heated battles over 64 alternate color squares. An upstart from an upstart land challenged the domination of an ancient eastern game by revolutionary comrades. And won. Chess has never been the same, particularly in the United States.