"zugzwang" poems
You make me feel so stupid
When we play chess
The way you en passant all nonchalant
You chase me into castle
From there I watch you intently
The way the Russians watched Bobby Fischer
In his hotel room
But while I wait for a move to develop
I become the Boredest Spazsky
My mind in a stalemate
As I try to crush your Sicilian defenses
As much as I harangue
You leave me in zugzwang
Which confuses my feeble mind
For I may be a pawn
But I'm the king pawn
Which means the board usually revolves around me
But your queen takes that instantly
And I'm left in a fool's checkmate
I wish you could see things from my side of the board
You'd see how desperately I wanted the king
All the complex and unique obstacles in the way
But instead you just sit there
And laugh at me losing all my pieces trying to reach you
Jun 12, 2017
Jun 12, 2017 at 2:17 AM UTC
Poison-filled pupils,
plagued from plucking eyelashes--
I want one more wish.
Sep 20, 2014
Sep 20, 2014 at 5:06 PM UTC
A Poem on Zugzwang :
Before your life ends up in Zugzwang
Learn to pin, Devoid of sins!
Skewer your thoughts,
Hope against odds.
Manoeuvre your troops and forces
Plant outposts and seal victories
Remember-
Numbered are your moments,
To post your deserving achievements!
Plan, Work Sail and Prevail
This is the way you must trail.
Chess is timing, so Is Life!
Move with a purpose, Have High aims!
Face the gale when
Defence is the demand
Hold on! Take charge and command.
Do the best and Leave the Rest
To God!
And he will save your position from the Critical Zugzwang!
Dec 9, 2013
Dec 9, 2013 at 7:38 AM UTC
My little game of Chess
That I played, with you
Making subtle moves
Hinting all too softly
Allowing impasses
Offering a pawn
Renouncing knights
Denouncing a bishop
Even giving up my Queen
That trying game of Chess
It appears, has come to a stale
Without one word spoken, without
An idea or intellect having being shared
My dear, I have not tried hard enough, and
I shall never be the wiser for not having made a move
May 12, 2020
May 12, 2020 at 5:11 PM UTC
i might leave a greener pasture
for a field of blue roses.
and some time spent
on the coast.
these hands were built
for bricks and
failure. made for
disappointment like a
bowling alley gutter.
dont even get me
started on the rest of it.
i have too much of a
bad thing and we are all
children at play.
i am known to leave
a good thing behind.
but ive never had
a great thing before,
so im not sure
how to feel.
i could start softening
the mortar again,
or just suffer in silence.
Oct 10, 2018
Oct 10, 2018 at 4:47 AM UTC
I love the English springtime:
the lambs that gambol
in the sprouting grass,
and budding flowers
that spread their scent.
But oh . . . !
I hate the sneezes
and the running nose
and streaming eyes
of allergies
in English springtime.
I love our English summer
that warms but rarely
overheats my thirsting
body. And I love
its cooling breezes.
But oh . . . !
I hate those wasps
that buzz around
my honey-covered toast
at breakfast-time outdoors
in English summers.
I love the English autumn.
The russets and the golds
that tease my eye;
the orchards and their
apple scent.
But oh . . . !
I hate that mud
that ***** my walking boots
from off my feet
on country rambles
in English autumns.
And then the English winter
that never can decide
which of the seasons
it most likes to emulate.
But oh . . . !
Thank god there are no wasps!
Nov 23, 2014
Nov 23, 2014 at 4:23 PM UTC
Night glass
full of froth,
the one-arm
scissor's voice,
a balestra
of cold idea,
a zugzwang
where I must
speak, I must,
but every word
will haunt me,
like the faces
of vapor that rise
at dawn from
the lawn.
The stars are
dying up there,
as the brute
sun rises again
& they fade
to zero
in the blue.
I have such
terrible flurries
of thought
at night,
everything is
crushing, but
inevitably the black
gives way to indigo,
then a delicate purple,
then to bright cobalt.
Things are better
under the opening
sun and its
tanning wing.
The devil sits
beside me,
feeding me his
melting whispers
dense as biscuits
full as the head
of the tree.
I can only banish
him back to his
bottle with the
piano, writing
songs in D minor,
letting the paint
listen as the hands
are moving,
weaving spells.
Finally, order
in my mind -
these doubts
will pass from history -
evanescence.
Other worries fall
like rippling castles.
I wake up too early
but there you are.
Things seem ok
in the deep deep
blue of morning,
stars hanging dead
in the sky as the
carving sun toasts
away the dew,
and doubts fade
back to zero.
Apr 21, 2019
Apr 21, 2019 at 6:00 AM UTC
Nauseating persiflage pontification
by aeolists with hollow minds,
it's a zugzwang situation,
so stuck among the prolix.
Panglossians in one ear
pessimists in the other,
a hiraeth longing for hygge,
yet stuck in the social mire.
Nonneutonian fluid vacuum,
imminent immersion of initiatives,
halting inundation of discerning,
heading toward a humming flat line.
Suddenly I adimpleate, with joy,
an archetypal suggestion floats in the air,
I excuse myself from the aretalogers,
and hunt the primordial source.
With legwork and inquest,
here and there on the scene,
I am defeated, misfortune,
alas, absorbed back into the quagmire.
Aug 15, 2017
Aug 15, 2017 at 11:23 AM UTC