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
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.
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