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Chess first of all teaches you to be objective.

quote by Alexander Alekhine
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Teacher Man

The Teacher Man teaches kids from all over the world
The Teacher Man teaches no matter boy or girl
The Teacher Man teaches Christans, Musilms, and Jews
The Teacher Man teaches those who say 'God I don't believe in you'
The Teacher Man teaches over demands for more recess
The Teacher Man teaches to only demand the best
The Teacher Man teaches Science, Reading, and Math
The Teacher Man teaches how to live out of class

The Teacher Man teaches all how to share
The Teacher Man teaches that we all should care
The Teacher Man teaches how to keep an open mind
The Teacher Man teaches with a kick in the behind
The Teacher Man teaches there are lessons in life
The Teacher Man teaches how to overcome strife
The Teacher Man teaches there's nothing wrong with a hug
The Teacher Man teaches the world changes with Love

The Teacher Man teaches the rich and the poor
The Teacher Man teaches those who are ready for more
The Teacher Man teaches how to look someone in the eye
The Teacher Man teaches how to accept someone in their cry
The Teacher Man teaches in more than one tounge
The Teacher Man teaches how to make working hard fun
The Teacher Man teaches all the colors of the land
But, most important of all, he teaches we should take a stand

Take a Stand, Take a Stand, for what you believe
Take a Stand, Take a Stand, and you will be free
Take a Stand, Take a Stand, for the least of the least
Take such Stand man, and you will find peace

He's the Teacher Man

poem by Ary Bolanos
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Life Is A Teacher

Life is a teacher, which teaches how to live.
Life is a teacher, which teaches how to win.
Life is a teacher, which teaches how to laugh.
Life is a teacher, which teaches how to make other people cry.
Life is a teacher, which teaches how to love.
Life is a teacher, which teaches how to hate.
Life is a teacher, which teaches how to win honour.
Life is a teacher, which teaches how to embarrass others.
Indeed, life is a great teacher as it teaches everything.
And in this very greatness lies life's weakness, that it teaches everything.
It teaches how to love, but also teaches how to hate.
It teaches how to help, but also teaches how to harm.
It teaches how to honour (others) , but also teaches how to embarrass (others) .
It teaches how to laugh, but also teaches how to make other people cry.
Wish life were a bit selective in its teaching.
But can't we be a bit selective in taking lessons?

poem by Raja Basu
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My Child's Tournament of Chess

High preparations
Great apprehensions
Last minute advises
Hope for celebrations
That's my child's tournament of chess.

Reaching the venue on time
Dying to know the opponent's name
Waiting for the match to commence
That's my child's tournament of chess.

Win or lose?
Life gets stuck
No mood to stroll
Hauling the mind
out of the chess hall
That's my child's tournament of chess.

My child starts appearing vulnerable
The opponent appears unbeatable
Praying for the win of my race horse
That's my child's tournament of chess.

Makes me meet all my weak emotions
Fear, jealousy, worry and doubt
challenge my sense of spiritualization
My mind gives me premonitions
That's my child's tournament of chess.

Gifts me a chance to become strong
A chance to climb up the emotional ladder,
for what I so long
A chance to look at the opponent as my own child
Pray for both to play their best
That's my child's tournament of chess.

My child's tournament of chess
allows me to understand
the meaning of failure
Two faces of the same coin,
success is no different from failure
Both are the part of the same destination with no comparison
Who can tell which is more important the Moon or the Sun.

My love for my child shall remain the same
Performance is no benchmark for the same
Win or loss, loss or win,
I will always love him
Whatever be the result
of my child's tournament of chess.

poem by Anshul Gupta
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A Timbered Choir

Even while I dreamed I prayed that what I saw was only fear and no foretelling,
for I saw the last known landscape destroyed for the sake
of the objective, the soil bludgeoned, the rock blasted.
Those who had wanted to go home would never get there now.

I visited the offices where for the sake of the objective the planners planned
at blank desks set in rows. I visited the loud factories
where the machines were made that would drive ever forward
toward the objective. I saw the forest reduced to stumps and gullies; I saw
the poisoned river, the mountain cast into the valley;
I came to the city that nobody recognized because it looked like every other city.
I saw the passages worn by the unnumbered
footfalls of those whose eyes were fixed upon the objective.

Their passing had obliterated the graves and the monuments
of those who had died in pursuit of the objective
and who had long ago forever been forgotten, according
to the inevitable rule that those who have forgotten forget
that they have forgotten. Men, women, and children now pursued the objective
as if nobody ever had pursued it before.

The races and the sexes now intermingled perfectly in pursuit of the objective.
the once-enslaved, the once-oppressed were now free
to sell themselves to the highest bidder
and to enter the best paying prisons
in pursuit of the objective, which was the destruction of all enemies,
which was the destruction of all obstacles, which was the destruction of all objects,
which was to clear the way to victory, which was to clear the way to promotion, to salvation, to progress,
to the completed sale, to the signature
on the contract, which was to clear the way
to self-realization, to self-creation, from which nobody who ever wanted to go home
would ever get there now, for every remembered place
had been displaced; the signposts had been bent to the ground and covered over.

Every place had been displaced, every love
unloved, every vow unsworn, every word unmeant
to make way for the passage of the crowd
of the individuated, the autonomous, the self-actuated, the homeless
with their many eyes opened toward the objective
which they did not yet perceive in the far distance,
having never known where they were going,
having never known where they came from.

poem by Wendell Berry
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Chess Piece Face

Whats gonna happen to chess piece face
There go I but for my face
All I know could be defaced by the facts in the life of chess piece face
I dont know where he lives
Or if he knows to sail
Or if little schemes like this one ever cross his trail
But I dont believe hes dreaming
Or if he cares to know
So I shudder* in my lampshade
So, whats gonna happen to chess piece face
There I go but for my face
All I know could be defaced by the facts in the life of chess piece face
Chess piece face
Chess piece face
Chess piece face

song performed by They Might Be Giants
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The Drop In Game

Two curious monkeys sat up in a palm tree
watching two Russian men playing chess.
Everyday they watched the Russians play
until a winner was declared the best.

The next day a Russian sat alone at the table
with the chess pieces set out to play.
A monkey dropped in and sat opposite him
and a game of chess got under way.

For over a week they played each other
until the monkey won five games to three.
The next day a lone monkey sat at the table
until its friend dropped down from a tree.

For two weeks they played each other
with every game resulting in a draw.
The monkeys that sat around watching
applauded and wanted to see more.

Two more weeks passed without a winner,
but then the tropical rains began to pour.
A hurricane blew the chess set out to sea,
now chess is played on the ocean floor.

poem by Orlando Belo
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Canto the Fifth

I
When amatory poets sing their loves
In liquid lines mellifluously bland,
And pair their rhymes as Venus yokes her doves,
They little think what mischief is in hand;
The greater their success the worse it proves,
As Ovid's verse may give to understand;
Even Petrarch's self, if judged with due severity,
Is the Platonic pimp of all posterity.

II
I therefore do denounce all amorous writing,
Except in such a way as not to attract;
Plain -- simple -- short, and by no means inviting,
But with a moral to each error tack'd,
Form'd rather for instructing than delighting,
And with all passions in their turn attack'd;
Now, if my Pegasus should not be shod ill,
This poem will become a moral model.

III
The European with the Asian shore
Sprinkled with palaces; the ocean stream
Here and there studded with a seventy-four;
Sophia's cupola with golden gleam;
The cypress groves; Olympus high and hoar;
The twelve isles, and the more than I could dream,
Far less describe, present the very view
Which charm'd the charming Mary Montagu.

IV
I have a passion for the name of "Mary,"
For once it was a magic sound to me;
And still it half calls up the realms of fairy,
Where I beheld what never was to be;
All feelings changed, but this was last to vary,
A spell from which even yet I am not quite free:
But I grow sad -- and let a tale grow cold,
Which must not be pathetically told.

V
The wind swept down the Euxine, and the wave
Broke foaming o'er the blue Symplegades;
'T is a grand sight from off the Giant's Grave
To watch the progress of those rolling seas
Between the Bosphorus, as they lash and lave
Europe and Asia, you being quite at ease;
There's not a sea the passenger e'er pukes in,
Turns up more dangerous breakers than the Euxine.

[...] Read more

poem by Byron from Don Juan (1824)
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Don Juan: Canto The Fifth

When amatory poets sing their loves
In liquid lines mellifluously bland,
And pair their rhymes as Venus yokes her doves,
They little think what mischief is in hand;
The greater their success the worse it proves,
As Ovid's verse may give to understand;
Even Petrarch's self, if judged with due severity,
Is the Platonic pimp of all posterity.

I therefore do denounce all amorous writing,
Except in such a way as not to attract;
Plain- simple- short, and by no means inviting,
But with a moral to each error tack'd,
Form'd rather for instructing than delighting,
And with all passions in their turn attack'd;
Now, if my Pegasus should not be shod ill,
This poem will become a moral model.

The European with the Asian shore
Sprinkled with palaces; the ocean stream
Here and there studded with a seventy-four;
Sophia's cupola with golden gleam;
The cypress groves; Olympus high and hoar;
The twelve isles, and the more than I could dream,
Far less describe, present the very view
Which charm'd the charming Mary Montagu.

I have a passion for the name of 'Mary,'
For once it was a magic sound to me;
And still it half calls up the realms of fairy,
Where I beheld what never was to be;
All feelings changed, but this was last to vary,
A spell from which even yet I am not quite free:
But I grow sad- and let a tale grow cold,
Which must not be pathetically told.

The wind swept down the Euxine, and the wave
Broke foaming o'er the blue Symplegades;
'T is a grand sight from off 'the Giant's Grave
To watch the progress of those rolling seas
Between the Bosphorus, as they lash and lave
Europe and Asia, you being quite at ease;
There 's not a sea the passenger e'er pukes in,
Turns up more dangerous breakers than the Euxine.

'T was a raw day of Autumn's bleak beginning,
When nights are equal, but not so the days;
The Parcae then cut short the further spinning
Of seamen's fates, and the loud tempests raise
The waters, and repentance for past sinning

[...] Read more

poem by Byron
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Life is Chess

Lets play a game of chess
A game that could bring about stress
A game that could also depress
If you strive to win without success

Chess is life Kasporov said
Thats what l thought off when l went to bed
Its funny you have a king and a queen
That represents a whole lot of things
Marriage, Politics, love and dont forget natures law

While the bishop goes with religion
The knights go to war to represent the nation
And the pawns march on like soldiers without a choice
But to defend our lives
The castle a wall around our thoughts
A protector for what our identity is worth

Who is behind the strategy
Does the player represent leadership
Are the pieces part of the world
If l draw a game what do l define myself
And if l win am l the supreme
Or is this thought merely too extreme

To play chess better
One has to constantly work harder
Recently l have acquired a bag of tricks
Which comes with experience
And while l play
I sometimes pray for luck
Which sometimes works
Such is the representation of real life

A queen so strong is sometimes sacrificed
While a king with only one move to his name
Is always the last to stay in the game
Thats goes to show that life is unfair
With all the pain and suffering that women bear
Life is Chess
I have to confess

© Sylvia Chidi- 17 October 2005

poem by Sylvia Chidi
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[...] Read more

poem by Caasder Fronds
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Stunned They Run

They've been there running,
Since he was elected.
Like plucked chickens,
Without necks.
They don't respect him.
No they don't.
Or his leadership that's best.

They've been there running,
Since he was elected.
Like plucked chickens,
Without necks.
They hate the fact he's where he's at.
And they're upset because of that.

Stunned they run,
Since he was elected.
He's no fun,
Since he was elected.
To do to get done,
Is his objective.
With more change to come.

Stunned they run,
Since he was elected.
He's no fun,
Since he was elected.
To do to get done,
Is his objective.
With more change to come.

They want reality delivered with more sweetening.

They've been there running,
Since he was elected.
Like plucked chickens,
Without necks.
They hate the fact he's where he's at.
And they're upset because of that.

They want reality delivered with more sweetening.

Stunned they run,
Since he was elected.
He's no fun,
Since he was elected.
To do to get done,
Is his objective.
With more change to come.

[...] Read more

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Sports teaches you character, it teaches you to play by the rules, it teaches you to know what it feels like to win and lose-it teaches you about life.

quote by Billie Jean King
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Picking From A Grab Bag

Pick one.
Go ahead and pick one.
Just only pick one...
And pull it from the grab bag.

Pick one.
Why don't you pick one.
Just pick up any one,
And...
Pull it from the grab bag.

Do the children learn their ABC's,
Picking from a grab bag.
Is this the best that it can be,
To...
Pick from a grab bag.
What's learn by,
Picking from a grab bag.
What's earned by,
Picking from a grab bag.
Who teaches,
Picking from a grab bag.
Who preaches,
Picking from a grab bag.
And what lessons are really learned?

Who,
Teaches...
Picking from a grab bag.
Who preaches,
Picking from a grab bag.
What's learn by,
Picking from a grab bag.
What's earned by,
Picking from a grab bag.
And...
What lessons are really learned,
Picking from a grab bag.
Picking from a grab bag.
Picking from a grab bag.
Picking from a grab bag.

Who teaches,
Picking from a grab bag.
Who preaches,
Picking from a grab bag.
And...
What lessons are really learned,
Picking from a grab bag.
And...

[...] Read more

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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After that, Kasparov stepped back from chess which is, and I want this to be clear, not good for chess in general at all. As a whole, the current situation in the chess world leaves a lot to be desired.

quote by Anatoly Karpov
Added by Lucian Velea
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On the Lake (1)

Mountain monks facing chess sit
Board on bamboo dark quiet
Shine bamboo no person see
Sometimes hear down chess piece sound
Two monks sit facing, playing chess on the mountain,
The bamboo shadow on the board is dark and clear.
Not a person sees the bamboo's shadow,
One sometimes hears the pieces being moved.

poem by Bai Juyi
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Robert Fisher

I wrote this poem shortly after his death on January 17,2008.

Bobby Fisher, chess savant and master
Unparalleled among the best that played.
A champion, a genius, destroyer
Of chess opponents, this day passed away.
You either loved him or hated the man
There wasn’t middle ground. His time had come.
Eccentricities never lost his fans.
I am the proof, e pluribus Unum.
In life his brief existence was tragic
Perhaps in death we’ll gain understanding
Of genius. Chess his forte, his magic
Preoccupation gave us deepening
Enlightenment of Caissa, his mentor.
His spirit now with her forevermore.

poem by Albert Ahearn
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In search of the perfect chess mate

Embedding new rules in a new arrangement and having a new strategy
The white king is driving the opposing king to the wrong corner, for being controlled by the bishop.
The white king is very rich.
He takes seemingly worthless properties from his own people
And turns them into his own properties,
Defending a system which has enslaved and still exploits.
And he gladly tries to see himself as a great hero, thinking how smart and clever he is,
Because he can encounter the Dark Essence.
His citizens become blind and very poor...

The black king has the power, he has respect for the private property
And rights of people to freely acquire and use property..
In his kingdom there are people who are rich and there are people who are very rich..
But the black king is blind...

The bihop gets greedy, day by day, because his two cards are identical,
And he may split the cards into two hands,
And his two hands can be played out independently.

He tries to hide himself, because he is paid to do this....

He has a lot of knights, very good fighters, but they are fighting for nothing...

The white is still trying his perfect chess mate.....

I think that he is trying to force matters too much in the match...

But he can win, because the chess is a sport which is really picking up momentum.....

You can see that the chess can become an easy game,
And the last thing to check before you move up and down is to see if you know its secrets,
And if you can highlight key issues in the movement strategy,
Because the movements do not adequately inser themselves in the universal rules...

The movements are set in real places, and sometimes include real events as well as imaginary ones
Like that twilling zone, which is capable to move itself in a stealthy or secret manner...

And you must have an infinity of ideas.... when something can be dissolved, it can be reconstructed into complex formulas...

If you have courage to play no-limit, you can play no-limit...

If you have no courage to play, then don't play...

Who cares?

In fact, it is the same bleeding atmosphere for all
And the same moribund Earth...

poem by Marieta Maglas
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Bobby Fischer

your pappy ain't your pappy, but that's OK,
well, he ain't your pappy, but that's ok
you can still play chess anyway,
bobby fischer.

yes, you can play the game of chess,
yes, the game of chess,
but in the game of life, your life is a mess,
bobby fischer.

I don't know but something ain't right,
I don't know but something ain't right,
you were a jew, yet an anti-semite,
bobby fischer,

being paranoid ain't so bad,
I mean it ain't so bad,
considering the life you had,
bobby fischer.

a captive of your own creation,
locked in an world of anticipation,
invalid passport and no relation,
bobby fischer.

poem by Richard Jarboe
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Prince Yousuf And The Alcayde

A Moorish Ballad
IN Grenada reigned Mohammed,
Sixth who bore the name was he;
But the rightful king, Prince Yousuf,
Pined in long captivity:
Yousuf, brother to Mohammed.
Him the king had seized and sent
Prisoner to a Moorish castle,
Where ten years his life was spent.
Ill and feeble, now the usurper
Felt his death was hastening on,
And would fain bequeath his kingdom
And his title to his son.
Calling then a trusty servant,
He to him a letter gave —
'Take my fleetest horse, and hasten,
If my life you wish to save.
'Hie thee to the brave Alcayde
Of my castle by the sea;
To his hands give thou this letter,
And his physician bring to me.'
Then in haste his servant mounted,
And for many a league he rode,
Till he reached the court and castle
Where the captive prince abode.
There sat Yousuf and the Alcayde
In the castle, playing chess.
'What is this?'
the keeper muttered.
'Some bad tidings, as I guess.'
Pale he grew, and sat and trembled,
While his eye the letter scanned;
And his voice was choked and speechless,
As he dropped it from his hand.
'Now what ails thee?'
cried Prince Yousuf.
'Doth the king demand my head?'
'Read it!'
gasps the good Alcayde.
'Ah, my lord — would I were dead!'
Yousuf read: 'When this shall reach you,
Slay my brother, and his head
Straightway by the bearer send me;,,
So I may be sure he's dead.'
'So' — cried Yousuf. 'This I looked for.
Now let us play out our game.
I was losing — you were winning
When this ugly message came.'
All confused, the poor Alcayde
Played his knights and bishops wrong;

[...] Read more

poem by Christopher Pearse Cranch
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Ukraine is now on the front line of the war — global war — of freedom against tyranny. The war the free world didn't want to admit existed. It cannot be ignored any longer. Brave Ukrainians are fighting like hell and dying right now to remind us not to take liberty for granted. Putin, like every dictator before him, underestimated the free will of free people. They deserve every weapon, every resource to win this war. Because they're fighting for us. Not only for the whole and free Ukraine. ... This is not chess. This is not a battle between opposite colors, but of opposite values. Freedom, life and love versus tyranny, death and hatred. This is not chess. But sometimes things are black and white. Sometimes you have to fight for what you believe. Or you lose it. This is not chess. There are no draws, no compromises in our battle with true evil. It's win or lose. And so we must fight. And so we must win. Slava Ukraini! Glory to Ukraine. Glory to freedom.

quote by Garry Kasparov
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