Exponential Guru

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2009-04-17T15:20:00.002+02:00

Home

I live in a shoe box
which unhousels me
at wake, and squeezes me at sleep.

In dreams the seams
of the enclave push
further, each time,
to rise droopy eyed
to a reality more distant
than my coffee cup
in its unseated resting
place beside the computer.

My shoe box swells
with Shakespeare, vitamin C,
politics of some Russian, Libyan,
or Banana Replican.
Hair brush meets Pavarotti,
tooth paste leans against Mtukudzi
Air freshener on top of Dunhill
as faded blazers sport old boy ties
of a bigger legacy, I now have no part of.
Thank God for that.

Four diaries, half finished plays,
and dozens of chess books,
make Pandora blush
from this box.

At times, in this bookwormed
eighth of an octagonal whole,
I, like the wriggling leg of a
chess Knight, check the window
sill.

I am still by the window. Standing.

My bed takes up a third of the eighth,
the main feature of the shoe. Here
life lies flat, the sole flatterer
of a flatter/deflated poet who fattens
on the feet of words,
a tick with an ideas fetish
that paws at a four walled
prism from the kennel
of a prison
that corrugates green trees
outside,
interrogates lean ears
on the wayside-
a half baked asylum
where multiple voices
whisper and shout split
hemispheres of crashed
stock exchanges, rigged elections,
and of a coconut with the middle name
Hussein who will lead the US
past the Klan into the Barrack
of Luther's kingdom
without Martin or Thabo,
even though they all secretly
attend the same church
that blame
whites for inventing HIV.

Derranged dangled outside my window
like Damocles did yesterday.
Sometimes the fleyed carcas
of the Observatorian underbelly
comes drifting passed,
a hangman that speaks German
to collect his rent, along with his confidant
the American Pitbull
that bellows in Scrumpies its belligerent advice
to the drinks-sponsored East African
from Long Street
who still has the patience
to listen before bonking
in the back kitchen's staple feed of
drunken visa-exchange;
the requiste (coming-of-age)
exorcism of the African Myth.

Today, I will send a postcard to
the new president, reminding him
of the distant beauty of
a crying beloved country.
The letter will go :
“Dear you,
with love,
Home.”

horizontal messiah

2008-09-09T20:34:00.006+02:00

Is there respite. Nails worn
sheets have lost their zeal
cotton fathoms its begnnings
the picker left years ago.

Phone curates images
of a painting that flowed
without ebbing.
A camera gimmick plays
last glance to mimic
your Yogic movement.

My bed has lost its metal
over years of daily
unlocking,
dismissing the gravity
of its oppressive inertia.

Risen from Golgotha's
horizontal messiah.

Dedication to Brail Chess

2008-08-26T20:11:00.003+02:00

He felt his way through to mate
fingered her pieces, and squares,
finding the filled, and the vacant,
with dextrous relish.

Hands were eyes, and saw more
than prophets gazing
across the sea.

Kramnik vs Anand, Moskva meets the Ganges

2008-08-01T09:34:00.003+02:00

Orders at Red Square
'no ash to the Ganges'
Moskva builds in flood
ready with reflectors
to outstare the outsider.

legend maintains, 'nothing escapes the Ganges'
its ebbing tide will await
your contribution
past eternity, if necessary.

Two rivers meet, and like oceans
in collision, the world watches.

In the Red Corner, the pragmatic praxis of Kremlin,
the Other corner, jogi genius improvised.
The Red is corner of past champions,
the Other is another of cast predictions.

Quakes from Kashmir shudder like prophets
the will of the Ganges,
From Sparrow Hills, the Kremlin seems
unshakeable...unbreakable.

Today Moskva meets the Ganges.
After dusk...
I saw an elephant rise up the Hill
like a big bird perched over its new
conquered horizon.

linares

2008-05-24T18:55:00.006+02:00

It all begins here
whatever dream squares
were meant to imagine.

There are those that only speak
in Linares.
Mute everywhere else, except Linares.

Secrets are kept unravelled
unitl the journey leads to Linares.
Blisters are hidden till scars reign in
at Linares.

Words carry weight in Linares.
Threats carry the scent of the hunter
like Hannibal in his Punic war.

Listen carefully,
hear Manolete's 'suerte de matar'
in the bullring,
Bobby grimacing at his pocket set,
Garry finding light in murky waters,
Chucky making miracles,
Vishy storming kings on elephants.

The future is borne in Linares,
young lions ragged in combat.
For their first utterance
to the world, to shout on the
mountain that splits hemispheres.

A Viking has culled a Soothsayer
today. Tomorrow the Ganges
awaits fresh ash.

No stones go unturned in Linares.

In Linares, lies and hyprocisy
last a mere couple of moves.

Queen

2008-03-10T19:40:00.003+02:00

Your departure from us
will be a return to you.
Your words of wisdom
become now our pulse.

Classrooms still see you
as do many great halls that
echo what has always meant
to be -a better world.
The one you made for us.

Your son will lead many sons
and we as fathers, will lead ours
through the vestiges of a mother's
blessing. Your blessing.

Our hands like yours will
continue to lay the bricks of
this home that reaches to
heaven, and roots in dignity.

Guide us still Queen,
to the vision that matches
your royalty.

Korchnoi

2008-02-06T21:03:00.000+02:00

Ticked off the list of many lists
your lines still stick their searing mark
Across empty buildings, broken windows
a visage of squares, that burn.

You still turn
as did those nights
under the lights of an
eastern horizon,
still learn
as did those fights
under western skies.

The ways of dying in Leningrad
a tutorage of courage
as tanks honed in, and grandma
kept you in her heart
beneath smokey clouds
of a city under siege.

The city has never left you.

Ticked off a list of many lists
Like a pilgrim pacing through
destiny's misgiving secrets,
you found a path away from Pharaoh
to surge through barbed wire,
a hero.

In 64 squares, you discovered
the Elixir of Life,
and have like an Alchemist
found immortality.

I live a thousand lives in your games
more than any dream can conjure.

Thank you.

Kasparov

2008-01-16T21:05:00.001+02:00

The sword of Damocles hangs.
Swaying in the wind from a
strand of hair. A reed
on a river bed, just before
the storm.

Know that we are that strand
that touches the handle of steel.
It is us, your friends who
suspend from the sky holding
the sword from its fall.

We struggle with you,
dangle the cliff with you
with every move you make,
every time you sway.

We are the thread that stops
the skies from lightning,
the string that will burn
when stars descend.

we have the power of 64 squares
on which you composed honour,
like music, and gave us a home.
One Of hope and dreams.

Even through the fire of lightning
we will not let you fall,
let Damocles hang,
let threaten his dreary gravity
down from the palace heights,
we shall not let you fall.

Do not stall dear friend
we will not stand to see you crawl.

SA Closed

2007-12-27T17:30:00.000+02:00

12 Warriors entered the circle
3 will stay in the cube
The rest must die.

9 tombs will scatter
the terrain of 64 squares
Engraved, the names of sacrifice.

But unlike most wars,

there are no funerals here.
Flowers remain strewn everywhere.
Unlike most battles,prisons have no cells,
dungeons hold no chains.

The blood is spilt in the mind,
And in this cube, only the strong remain.

The Warrior of The Grey Zone
The Guru of Soweto,
The Pretorian Prince,
And a doctor who finds
solutions in the stars,
have gathered.

Aribters stalked the main stage
And the Bard found his way
on a table among trivial manuscripts.

It was a time when the young lions
faced initiation at the hands of the elders
and ragged-toothed, smelt the shores
of Dresden.

The Guru was laid low by a swing of Steel
The Greyzone was silenced into purgatory
A man from Springbok bullied on tops boards,
while luck ran out for the man of Gluck.

Later a Berg of Will departed, forced,
as death spoke of a pawn unpromoted.
Remain the mountain, my friend.
We await with arms open on e8,
humbled as we mourn.

The doctor is yet to return from the atmosphere.

Dresden will shudder
and smile,
when we say,
" A Cube has fallen from the stars
and out of its many values...
...we will finally become understood."

dawn has arrived in the central city

2007-12-12T13:30:00.000+02:00

It took me 5 nights and 6 days
to discover Reason.

On the 7th i found the square.

The battles in the Central City have ceased.
This morning I found a poppy on the green lawn.

The soldiers have been chosen,
to fight another day, in another city.

With two friends, we captured the codes
wrote them on scrolls, and sold
in the citadel.

The greatest of Spartans came to read
and the power of their discovery
was handed don to the young ones,
who conquered 64 squares fearlessly.

My heart arrived bruised in the central city
and after hours I lost pictures of my shadows.

For days, i sought to recover the images,
while fire swept this stage.

A million hands have touched you my queen
as you move across horizons,
a thousand ears have listened to your orders
as you find diagnols to the stars.

it is here in the central city
it here where minds move mountains.

Bloemfontein holds our story.

Dawn has arrived in the central city
betrayal melts into waterfalls
crowns of kings, queens, bishops and knights
remain.

Finding Reason

2007-12-11T03:30:00.000+02:00

I arrived without much
not even an expectation.

It took me 5 nights and 6 days
to discover Reason.

With even pushing a single pawn
I felt far from the 8th square
My dreams were left behind
where a table meets a mountain.

Every second is pulsing reminder
of a mistake.
It took just one day before
love was stolen out of me,
by a kindergarten thief.

Not even knowing what he had
taken, the portraits of lights
and shadows, this child snatched
them with out thought.

I then met a man dressed in a suit
who for a moment sold me false hope
at a price of trust.

The position looked lost
no Knights on the horizon,
my King taking a waltz into
doom.

Lies filled lies, and on the 5th night
of the 6th day, been left outside after work
just before dawn, knocking to the deaf ears
of the porter, I found reason.

It is time to depart the central city.

I know why I go
Scarred with the knowing
I betrayed myself by arriving.

Bloemfontein

2007-12-06T13:52:00.000+02:00

It is said
nothing goes unseen
in the central city.

a city once scorched
still sours sweet songs
fills lost hours.

nothing goes unheard
in the central city
orange and free

a place of deep hearts
humbled words
spirited minds

the city captivates as it captures

it is honest

Supreme matters conclude,
and begin behind the walls
of the central city.

In the central library
a million hands touch pieces
of a sustained puzzle.

64 squares have arrived
armies from every province
have set up camp.

tents, clocks, and a million hands
hold life in condensed matches
in solid buildings
with outside green lawns.

eyes fix to the prize
to fly across the dry sand
on a flag.

the central voice speaks to all

through rickety tones
of listening phones
and strong pulses
of a passionate red.

We play our moves today
in the central place
where we have made
beginning and ends
findings and bends.

pawn unpromoted

2007-11-19T13:16:00.000+02:00

He was still-born, unborn,
a child of another man
she said.

Still torn
he page s through
memory.

Sifting through trinklets
in a hurricaine
a ring
once worn.

Moons have passed since
the sun counted endless
hours of today's remembrance.

He holds no monument
a loss without a name.
No claim.
He was not his, but his,
her lover, the one
which ended him,
and started this other.

Her love still stings
still slings him across stars
each with their own
hemisphere of yearning
each their own world
of burning.

He is told, that in her tummy
the child of the other stopped breathing.
He sees her face, as beautiful as day,
meeting waterfalls.

She says she hoped one day
for him to be a father.
She met another who gave her
a baby,
one unborn, still-born inside her.

She still had his heart the night
she made love to another.

The child was not his but his
it is said.
His heart was not this but this...

it is dead, it is said.

Ode to my dog

2007-11-15T16:36:00.000+02:00

Rambo would have played chess
were it not for the fact that he
preferred avocados.

He would have been a GM
were it not for the fact
that he guarded lives
with every sense of his being.

He would have been Danish Gambit King
were it not for the fact that he was a Rotti
and preferred bradworst to cake.

Though I would have loved to
have shared with my dog this game
that I love so much.
The thought of Rambo being anything different
in my childhood brain was too hard to imagine.

For I knew, he would have become World Champion
and may have forgotten to meet me
at the gate in all his enthusiasm
to play catch.

Chess may have lost a potential master
I on the other hand
greedily kept my friend.

Wishes

2007-10-12T14:46:00.001+02:00

A crow's crown of thorns

nestles in my head

scavenging sharply for

ideas that keep.

Scratching the doors of heaven

it makes me wonder.

Unlike you, still smiles

cement like portraits.

You move like the sea.

I am still swept beneath

the waves, in the sand.

With wishes you rose

into the sky.

Left me behind.

Giant

2007-09-27T16:36:00.000+02:00

I sat down at my table

my little opponent adjusts

her pieces.

She played the rebellious Sicilian Najdorf,

and I went in with the papal Sozin Attack.

But unlike any thirteen year old

I have met

she understood the ancient Mafiosi lines

of Sicily very well.

I would have sworn she was Italian,

or even a daughter of Greco,

the holder of his manuscripts.

And so it was,

a rude awakening.

After the opening when things

seemed fine for the white pieces,

developed and looking chic,

in a flash,

like a volcanic secret unraveled,

the board was set alight

and all my pieces were on prix.

Black's attack was scathing.

A pride of lions had gathered

and began stalking the ranks.

Dark clouds loomed over

my kingdom.

Meanwhile my king

was getting dizzy

from being toyed with

by flying reptiles that screeched

across the diagnols.

He bobbed around the centre

like a mouse on a shoe string

before being gobbled up

by an overweight Garfield.

As my position went from

very bad to even worse

I suddenly noticed

my little opponent had become a giant.

I was quite surprised to

see a giant sitting opposite me

I did not notice it

enter the room.

Bad Bishop

2007-09-21T14:21:00.000+02:00

You accepted the morsels
of a mouldy piece of bread
and in so doing betrayed Ubuntu,
clogging up the resevoir of blood
spilled in the Chimurenga,
letting it clot and thicken.

Your eloquence enunciated fully
the hunger of your palate
while you laid to rest
thousands of empty stomachs.
It must have tasted sweet,
now that your mouth is rotten.

Hoodwinked Knight

2007-09-21T14:16:00.000+02:00

Struggling with my brother
I draw back my dark hair
our conversation is black
between his eyes a frown
that cuts through white paper.

Words seems less than fed
thoughts fry into empty stoves.
A Tiresias dumped into Cassandra's
enclave of yesterday's unbelieved secrets.

If our lost faces found small change,
plastic bottles would greet heaven
in Maoist jewellery stores stock-piled
with green gold and hoodwinked sapphires
that burn mercenary ideas into gems.

I hear you my brother,
though i admit nothing...yet.

Swiss Confetti

2007-09-21T13:56:00.000+02:00

'The boat is full', said the gold keeper
'Turn back across Konstanz
and wear your yellow badge"

Bern burnt in guilt.
Cantons could not sway the order.
Heat expired
like small change.

Gluttoral excuses in German creole
as raclette mused over fondue Kings.
Sanguine Solothurn sung of sorrow
as molten cheese cooked in wine.

Precise, punctual hands, neutral with gold.

'Kreutzlingen is not for sale', it was once said.

Yet, the boat was full...

...still is Today.

Prolitariat Pawn Promotion

2007-09-21T13:51:00.000+02:00

There is a man. One man. He wears bright colours.
Like hot blood spewing down a prism
he speaks of a rainbow that rains revenge.

He is a dangerman. The dangerman. One man.

He sings anthems on one foot
carries a red book, fingers its pages
and smiles. One man. A dangerman.
He smokes tobacco, cuts through sand
and denies desease behind a curtain
that showers.

The man.
A man, one man, the dangerman
will become king.
Every poor man will sing

As Troy sung for its horse.

incandescence

2007-09-11T12:09:00.000+02:00

A grey jacket under a khaki coat
it rains outside,
the notes in my head
are still clear.
Windows veer out into another place.

They are marching.
Brisk against the ice
doors jam, the rake
lies across the court yard
unaccounted for.

I saw her hold his hand
was very small.
Big was the funeral,
a quick wrap up
and prayer, among the
orphan's toys.

Loose change blows
in the wind.
Angels of the dead
collect them,
and garner a dusty mound
with flowers.

Tribute to Luciano Pavarotti

2007-09-07T16:24:00.000+02:00

My pieces were moved from the heart
when they listened to Nessun Dorma.

Thank you for lifting us across our universe.

Sarajevo Bonjour, memoirs of a Yugoslavian GM

2007-08-30T16:43:00.000+02:00

Coffins are a luxury, as is soil instead of snow
White, and clear, white and clear.
The muslims have it cheaper though, the burials that is.

Oh, the bakery is opening today,
We'll make a trip to town, dressed up for God.

Hot are the cinders as the wheat is baked,
a beautiful brown fresh bread.
The church's broken door handle looks fixed,
I saw the pastor smile yesterday, across the bomb crater
Which now looks like it's part of the life here .
A second scud missile blew up the soccer pitch,
It should have been done ages ago.

Do you like the new green shade on the trigger
Of my gun? I painted it myself- it's my horticultural
Experience, Vera loves my green fingers which explains the
Long creeper that is up her wall, she insists on watering it
Twice a day-she says it is good for the stem.

Green trust becomes a golden plaque to be melted on gravel
Like one masterly stroke of stolen innocence
Slicing the scabs of subdued conscience
Like Serbian metal, whose cold kiss invites the screams.

Tauriq Jenkins

Somalia

2007-08-30T16:38:00.000+02:00

Through the desert sands of a continent,
my eyes narrow in, more minutely, more intimately
I see the glinting metal
that ripples through the sand during the storm
I see a footprint of a scud missile,
an array of bullet-shells in the dune.
Sing Hamada, sing in the hail of your future.

Tauriq Jenkins

When falcons call

2007-08-30T15:27:00.000+02:00

A leathered glove
not clenched, not open,
you fly about the hue.

Sharp and accurate
you serrate the air
with finesse and grace.

Today, on my arm
you stay for a while,
a little longer than usual.

Our friendship through
unspoken words
spills in a mutual trade
of looks.

I admire the stealth of your
flight,
but am happy on your landing,
as you stay a while.

Funny that we fear each other.
I tremor at your claws,
and you know who holds
the gyre.

It's been a while since
last we sat together.

I have always listened
in the distance that binds us,
the only time when you speak,
from way up there.

Only from up there,
do I hear your call.