The Game of Chess

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Red knights, brown bishops, bright queens,
Striking the board, falling in strong “L”s of colour,
Reaching and striking in angles,
holding lines in one colour.
This board is alive with light;
these pieces are living in form,
Their moves break and reform the pattern:
Luminous green from the rooks,
Clashing with “X”s of queens,
looped with the knight-leaps.
“Y” pawns, cleaving, embanking!
Whirl! Centripetal! Mate! King down in the vortex,
Clash, leaping of bands, straight strips of hard colour,
Blocked lights working in. Escapes. Renewal of contest.

- Ezra Pound (Lustra, 1916-1917)


What does it mean? I don’t know. I like the exclaimed words, the suggestions of capital-L letters, the short, shouted language. Whirling, spinning vortices hinting at the intricacies of tactics of that 64-square board where medieval men hack, swords clanging. Pound, as a poet, always intrigued me, and I always wished to spend time studying him. Never did, except for a brief couple of weeks in 2002 thumbing through the Cantos. Perhaps a poem here and there might help take my mind off intrusive things of lesser and greater importance …