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The X-CHESS "Juke Box" is our home team's collection of members' favorite songs. Please state (in bold) the name of the band, the song, the year(if possible) and, include the link below (or embed the video). I will get us started with a few of my favorites. Then I invite all of you to do the same. The theme for the first 2 weeks is the 1960s.

Luke 15: 1-7 1. Then drew near unto him all the publicans and sinners for to hear him. 2. And the Pharisees and Scribes murmured, saying, This man receiveth sinners, and eateth with them. 3. And he spake this parable unto them, saying, 4. What man of you, having a hundred sheep, if he lose one of them, doth not leave the ninety and nine in the wilderness, and go after that which is lost, until he find it? 5. And, when he hath found it, he layeth it on his shoulders, rejoicing. 6. And when he cometh home, he calleth together his friends and neighbours, saying unto them, Rejoice with me; for I have found my sheep which was lost. 7. I say unto you, that likewise joy shall be in heaven over one sinner that repenteth, more than over ninety and nine just persons, which need no repentance.

Lycabas A name of the Year. Some say the word means “a march of wolves”, which wolves, running in single file, are the Months of the Year. Others say the word means “the path of the light”. O ye months of the year, Are ye a march of wolves? Lycabas! Lycabas! twelve to growl and slay? Men hearken at night, and lie in fear, Some men hearken all day! Lycabas, verily thou art a gallop of wolves, Gaunt gray wolves, gray months of the year, hunting in twelves, Running and howling, head to tail, In a single file, over the snow, A long low gliding of silent horror and fear! On and on, ghastly and drear, Not a head turning, not a foot swerving, ye go, Twelve making only a one-wolf track! Onward ye howl, and behind we wail; Wail behind your narrow and slack Wallowing line, and moan and weep, As ye draw it on, straight and deep, Thorough the night so swart! Behind you a desert, and eyes a-weary, A long, bare highway, stony and dreary, A hungry soul, and a wolf-cub wrapt, A live wolf-cub, sharp-toothed, steel-chapt, In the garment next the heart! Lycabas! One of them hurt me sore! Two of them hurt and tore! Three of them made me bleed! The fourth did a terrible deed, Rent me the worst of the four! Rent me, and shook me, and tore, And ran away with a growl! Lycabas, if I feared you a jot, You, and your devils running in twelves, Black-mouthed, hell-throated, straight-going wolves, I would run like a wolf, I too, and howl! I live, and I fear you not. But shall I not hate you, low-galloping wolves Hunting in ceaseless twelves? Ye have hunted away my lambs! Ye ran at them open-mouthed, And your mouths were gleamy-toothed, And their whiteness with red foam frothed, And your throats were a purple-black gulf: My lambs they fled, and they came not back! Lovely white lambs they were, alack! They fled afar and they left a track Which at night, when the lone sky clears, Glistens with Nature's tears! Many a shepherd scarce thinks of a lamb But he hears behind it the growl of a wolf, And behind that the wail of its dam! They ran, nor cried, but fled From day's sweet pasture, from night's soft bed: Ah me, the look in their eyes! For behind them rushed the swallowing gulf, The maw of the growl-throated wolf, And they fled as the thing that speeds or dies: They looked not behind, But fled as over the grass the wind. Oh my lambs, I would drop away Into a night that never saw day That so in your dear hearts you might say, "All is well for ever and aye!" Yet it was well to hurry away, To hurry from me, your shepherd gray: I had no sword to bite and slay, And the wolfy Months were on your track! It was well to start from work and play, It was well to hurry from me away-- But why not once look back? The wolves came panting down the lea-- What was left you but somewhere flee! Ye saw the Shepherd that never grows old, Ye saw the great Shepherd, and him ye knew, And the wolves never once came near to you; For he saw you coming, threw down his crook, Ran, and his arms about you threw; He gathered you into his garment's fold, He kneeled, he gathered, he lifted you, And his bosom and arms were full of you. He has taken you home to his stronghold: Out of the castle of Love ye look; The castle of Love is now your home, From the garden of Love you will never roam, And the wolves no more shall flutter you. Lycabas! Lycabas! For all your hunting and howling and cries, Your yelling of woe! and alas! For all your thin tongues and your fiery eyes, Your questing thorough the windy grass, Your gurgling gnar, and your horrent hair, And your white teeth that will not spare-- Wolves, I fear you never a jot, Though you come at me with your mouths red-hot, Eyes of fury, and teeth that foam: Ye can do nothing but drive me home! Wolves, wolves, you will lie one day-- Ye are lying even now, this very day, Wolves in twelves, gaunt and gray, At the feet of the Shepherd that leads the dams, At the feet of the Shepherd that carries the lambs! And now that I see you with my mind's eye, What are you indeed? My mind revolves. Are you, are you verily wolves? I saw you only through twilight dark, Through rain and wind, and ill could mark! Now I come near-are you verily wolves? Ye have torn, but I never saw you slay! Me ye have torn, but I live to-day, Live, and hope to live ever and aye! Closer still let me look at you!-- Black are your mouths, but your eyes are true!-- Now, now I know you!-- the Shepherd's sheep-dogs! Friends of us sheep on the moors and bogs, Lost so often in swamps and fogs! Dear creatures, forgive me; I did you wrong; You to the castle of Love belong: Forgive the sore heart that made sharp the tongue! Your swift-flying feet the Shepherd sends To gather the lambs, his little friends, And draw the sheep after for rich amends! Sharp are your teeth, my wolves divine, But loves and no hates in your deep eyes shine! No more will I call you evil names, No more assail you with untrue blames! Wake me with howling, check me with biting, Rouse up my strength for the holy fighting: Hunt me still back, nor let me stray Out of the infinite narrow way, The radiant march of the Lord of Light, Home to the Father of Love and Might, Where each puts "Thou" in the place of "I", And Love is the Law of Liberty. George MacDonald (1824-1905) (Scottish author, poet, and Christian minister. He was a pioneering figure in the field of fantasy literature.) source: http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/lycabas/

"We cannot resist the fascination of sacrifice, since a passion for sacrifices is part of a chessplayer's nature." -Rudolf Spielmann (1883-1942) For a man, being “in or out of favor” can set the stage for possibilities that would eventually determine one’s fate in this chess-y world of pawns and pieces. For a woman, it would not make much of a difference because this can only mean one thing: With a turn of a simple sign, thumbs up or down, the masses can overwhelm or crush a mere individual who dares defy the greatest odds. In the following articles, the ensuing idea is that: The salvation of “humanity and chess” is only possible with a return to the “new” style of the romantics (or the “old” masters). Some chess articles may at times appear to be childish or even dull, but when you discover the “nature” or true meaning of the letter, a black and white checkered board can turn into a colorful, stylish and liberating theme. In “The Master of Attack” and “The Last Romantic”, Rudolf Spielmann (1883-1942), knew a thing or two about the essence of sacrifices in chess. All that remains is for you, the individual, to put your chess skills to the test and ask yourself: Is this chess just a “hoax” or is it a “yo-yo” for the masses? Maybe it’s just me but I when I read certain articles, some details stand out as “colorful”. The Last Romantic (July 22, 2009) by GM Julio_Becerra Rudolf Spielmann, the Lethal Gentleman! (October 15, 2013) by IM Silman

For over 1 year now, I have been gathering chess articles exclusively for our group, that I believe are good reads for our members. Recently, while searching for material on chess.com, I found a poem, and later, a second poem which happens to be the first (or the original) that I want to share with this group. After all, our winning formula states it clearly in the group's public profile: together we will climb the chess ladder with a divine and rediscovered formula that has worked for ages: 1-offer a sacrifice to the chess goddess, and, 2-conquer your chess fears by applying chess psychology. That`s right, we are not confined to making sacrifices on the chessboard only. Keep an open mind and the marvels of creativity will set you free. The poems included below (see links) feature Caïssa, the goddess of chess: In the first poem, the goddess of chess is originally portrayed in Hieronymus Vida's (Italian poet of the Renaissance) 658-line poem titled "Scacchia, Ludus" published in 1527. It describes a chess game between Apollo and Mercury (In Greek and Roman mythology, the god of the sun and light, and the god of messages and communication, respectively.) in the presence of the other gods. Poem1: "Scacchia, Ludus" or "The Game of Chess" http://www.edochess.ca/batgirl/Ludus.html In the second poem, Sir William Jones's 1763 version titled "Caïssa" is about: "Caïssa initially repelling the advances of the god of war, Mars, who seeks the aid of the god of sport Euphron, who, in turn, creates the game of chess as a gift for Mars to win Caïssa's favor. Poem2: "Caïssa", posted by batgirl (Oct 20, 2009) http://www.chess.com/blog/batgirl/caiumlssa2

For team members who still have their doubts as to unorthodox chess standing ground against the toughest opposition available, consider the following "model" article that demonstrates the power of unorthodox combinations unleashed at the highest level in chess. If any of you have been deceived in the recent past, and think that this style of play is out of favour in this day and age, maybe your fascination with computer lines have you "dreaming" already of wonderland. But, do not be fooled. Perhaps you are not ready to accept that it's all real: unorthodox combinations are truly a godly means of refuting all current human knowledge or lines of thinking... (Note: The above paragraph is not an excerpt of this article but, just me trying to add some flavour to it before you all devour it on your quest for chess supremacy!) article: "How to Play Unorthodox Combinations" by GM Daniel Naroditsky (Aug01, 2014)

The present avatar for Un-Orthodox CHESS is the Ferz(F), a very old piece found in some early chess variants, such as Tamerlane and Shatranj. This now unorthodox piece was considered standard until the modern moves of the queen and bishop were developed. Originally called mantri (Sanskrit for "minister" or "counsellor"), it was later translated by the Persians to farzin, meaning "counsellor" or "wise man". In the Arab world it was known as the firz, and, in Medieval Europe ferz. Its name later changed to the queen, but when that name started being used for the modern chess queen, its former name ferz or fers began to be used in chess problems. The Ferz is a colorbound piece (limited to only half of the board) that moves one square diagonally. By itself it is worth about half a knight. Three ferzes and a king can force checkmate on a bare king (assuming that all three ferzes are not on the same color); two ferzes and a king can force stalemate on a bare king, but not easily. The endgame of rook versus Ferz is a win for the rook. For more information on the Ferz(F): Ferz: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ferz_(chess) Fairy chess piece(or unorthodox chess piece): http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fairy_chess_piece Shatranj(chess variant): http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shatranj Tamerlane (chess variant): http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tamerlane_chess

Unorthodox openings are often considered unusual or strange openings. They are often easily refuted, and are less respectable and less effective than either standard or gambit openings. So, why employ these inferior openings that are rejected as unpromising, and that almost always fail against professionnal oppostion? The answer is simple. Although, unorthodox openings often violate conventional wisdom by either disregarding the center, creating a weakness in the pawn structure, giving up the right to castle or by playing an awkward position for minor pieces, the openings are still playable and are not necessarily bad. Although they are considered inferior to standard and gambit openings, the unorthodox openings are not dead yet! Despite all the fails and refutations, and a world with no respect, perhaps a more favourable future awaits for the unorthodox openings simply because the experimental nature of human beings has uncovered a few bright spots and possibilities that address the following topics: -Unorthodox openings are often transpositional, leading to well known variations.-Unorthodox move orders are often used to reach standard positions-Unorthodox move orders are effective when trying to avoid certain lines.-Unorthodox openings can contain exceptions to openings general principles.-Unorthodox openings take the game out of well known theory. So, if gambit openings include "what has worked" in the past, and standard openings include "what works" in the present, then unorthodox openings must include ALL THE REST, including "what has yet to work". And, "all the rest" is substantial, and perhaps even significant, as to make even professionals shudder. IMperf_X_ion00

I created this team to regroup chess players who believe in and appreciate chess psychology and sacrifices. My main concern is to abstain from this mechanical warfare (one battle after another on the chessboard) to focus instead on a psychological game. For chess players who are more active and more interested in the battle field, The Un_Orthodox for you would play only a secondary role. What gives our team its unique and unorthodox character can be summarized in 5 points: 1. Chess Psychology: This is the predominant factor that will differentiate our group from other groups, including our main focus. 2. Chess books, quotes and articles: The second most important factor for this group will be the sharing of chess knowledge, including insights that will help us improve from a psychological standpoint. 3. Game Showcase: The purpose of "Game Showcase" is to correct our bad habits, blunders, and other chess pitfalls, by demonstrating this on the chess board. 4. Team matches: This includes Chess960 (or Fischer Random), unorthodox openings, standard chess and an introduction to chess variants. 5. Other chess relics: This includes all other resources that can be shared with our team such as chess stories or anecdotes, pictures, albums, videos, and more. I hope this experience will be positive for all our members, and, I encourage all of you to share any interesting material for the benefit of this group. For all other activities, and weekly updates, visit our homepage on a regular basis. The Un_Orthodox

In a battle of wits, there is nothing more disreputable than a king being forced out of his own court (or rank). In the game displayed below, my opponent’s king was checked 12 times before being checkmated on the 33rd move, in yet another fearful but exciting bullet game. Exciting, because there is always the clock to worry about, and fearful, because bullet chess is the most dynamic competition one can expect. In the culmination of this battle, as one player opts for the last resort which is to play out the clock, the other is thinking checkmate. Maybe this only happens in the amateur's chess world and is almost like a day dream, lasting but a few moments. It is nevertheless worthy of an honorable display for a lesson to be taught before undertaking the next battle. Besides, the honorable thing to do for black in this situation would be to resign (let's say after 13... Nh6 or 14. NxQ), unless any chess bullying tactics dictate otherwise. By the way, in bullet chess, it is a very common tactic in games between amateurs to play out the clock (to play faster than your opponent hoping this one will succumb to time pressure). My intention is not to insult my opponent, because, I admit, I have done this myself. The problem lies in the fact that, for some mathematical or scientific reason, many players think it is more humiliating or shameful getting beat in 13 moves rather than in 33 moves, when in fact the opposite is often true. With the same reasoning I can conclude that the logic behind scoring points is not the same as the reality of the position. Thankfully, it is never too late to correct these bad habits. So, rather then describing this battle as chasing the black king around after an early breakthrough on the queenside, the disrepute lies in the fact that in the chess language, unlike any other language, this would simply be un-orthodox, or unheard of. Almost as if saying that the king has lost his mind and has deserted his own palace. The biggest lesson to be taught here is: Knowing when to resign... (Note: The following game game was a random setup in chess.com’s Live Chess. The time controls and rating range being the biggest factors in selecting my opponent.) ExPion05

Back to the Basics: The Woodpusher "It is not a move, even the best move, that you must seek, but a realisable plan." Eugene Znosko-Borovsky (1884-1954) There comes a time when you feel that your chess game is no longer improving. You are stuck in a range and have given up all hope somewhere along your chess journey. This is where you begin asking yourself questions... It all starts when you begin playing at a higher level and you notice that the moves are more and more computer-like, or mechanical. The only way to compete at this level you would think is to use the same logic or approach as the computer. But, when it comes to memory and calculation the computer dominates the chess world. And, it would seem like a hopeless fight to imitate a computer in looking for the best possible moves. This is, in fact, where the real fun begins... It is your psychological superiority that you must use against a computer-like opponent. And, if you thought the most important battle would be against an unbeatable mechanical monster... think again... because the most important battle has already begun. By thinking up a new plan for every move that surprised you in chess, you have given hope where it was completely hopeless. AND, now that you are about to discover the psychology that breaths life into your chess game, it is done: The humble woodpusher has proved to be a greater opponent in helping you understand and learn in a bullet game what the uncompromising computer could not do in a lifetime. The moral, or lesson, in the following game is: SOMETIMES, THE BEST PLAN IS NO PLAN! Game Name: The Woodpusher, a true philosopher! by ExPion05

Welcome to all new members, Just think about the thousands of groups at chess.com, and, you will realize that you were drawn to this team for a reason. Maybe it’s our style, the motto in the background "think different", a hidden theme that appeals to you, the sacrifices or the psychology. Or, maybe it's just a coincidence, but even that can be a reason to join us. Whatever the reason, you are now part of this team and, if you stick around long enough you will witness our conquest and our elevation, as chessers from around the world support our resurrected team. All that I ask from you, in return, is to contribute to our success by some form of active participation. Please note that passive members will be tolerated. The Un_Orthodox Note: This group would not be possible without chess.com, therefore please respect all chess.com rules and policies.

The Everlasting Gospel The vision of Christ that thou dost see Is my vision’s greatest enemy. Thine has a great hook nose like thine; Mine has a snub nose like to mine. Thine is the Friend of all Mankind; Mine speaks in parables to the blind. Thine loves the same world that mine hates; Thy heaven doors are my hell gates. Socrates taught what Meletus Loath’d as a nation’s bitterest curse, And Caiaphas was in his own mind A benefactor to mankind. Both read the Bible day and night, But thou read’st black where I read white. Was Jesus gentle, or did He Give any marks of gentility? When twelve years old He ran away, And left His parents in dismay. When after three days’ sorrow found, Loud as Sinai’s trumpet-sound: ‘No earthly parents I confess— My Heavenly Father’s business! Ye understand not what I say, And, angry, force Me to obey. Obedience is a duty then, And favour gains with God and men.’ John from the wilderness loud cried; Satan gloried in his pride. ‘Come,’ said Satan, ‘come away, I’ll soon see if you’ll obey! John for disobedience bled, But you can turn the stones to bread. God’s high king and God’s high priest Shall plant their glories in your breast, If Caiaphas you will obey, If Herod you with bloody prey Feed with the sacrifice, and be Obedient, fall down, worship me.’ Thunders and lightnings broke around, And Jesus’ voice in thunders’ sound: ‘Thus I seize the spiritual prey. Ye smiters with disease, make way. I come your King and God to seize, Is God a smiter with disease?’ The God of this world rag’d in vain: He bound old Satan in His chain, And, bursting forth, His furious ire Became a chariot of fire. Throughout the land He took His course, And trac’d diseases to their source. He curs’d the Scribe and Pharisee, Trampling down hypocrisy. Where’er His chariot took its way, There Gates of Death let in the Day, Broke down from every chain and bar; And Satan in His spiritual war Dragg’d at His chariot-wheels: loud howl’d The God of this world: louder roll’d The chariot-wheels, and louder still His voice was heard from Zion’s Hill, And in His hand the scourge shone bright; He scourg’d the merchant Canaanite From out the Temple of His Mind, And in his body tight does bind Satan and all his hellish crew; And thus with wrath He did subdue The serpent bulk of Nature’s dross, Till He had nail’d it to the Cross. He took on sin in the Virgin’s womb And put it off on the Cross and tomb To be worshipp’d by the Church of Rome. Was Jesus humble? or did He Give any proofs of humility? Boast of high things with humble tone, And give with charity a stone? When but a child He ran away, And left His parents in dismay. When they had wander’d three days long These were the words upon His tongue: ‘No earthly parents I confess: I am doing My Father’s business.’ When the rich learnèd Pharisee Came to consult Him secretly, Upon his heart with iron pen He wrote ‘Ye must be born again.’ He was too proud to take a bribe; He spoke with authority, not like a Scribe. He says with most consummate art ‘Follow Me, I am meek and lowly of heart, As that is the only way to escape The miser’s net and the glutton’s trap.’ What can be done with such desperate fools Who follow after the heathen schools? I was standing by when Jesus died; What I call’d humility, they call’d pride. He who loves his enemies betrays his friends. This surely is not what Jesus intends; But the sneaking pride of heroic schools, And the Scribes’ and Pharisees’ virtuous rules; For He acts with honest, triumphant pride, And this is the cause that Jesus dies. He did not die with Christian ease, Asking pardon of His enemies: If He had, Caiaphas would forgive; Sneaking submission can always live. He had only to say that God was the Devil, And the Devil was God, like a Christian civil; Mild Christian regrets to the Devil confess For affronting him thrice in the wilderness; He had soon been bloody Caesar’s elf, And at last he would have been Caesar himself, Like Dr. Priestly and Bacon and Newton— Poor spiritual knowledge is not worth a button For thus the Gospel Sir Isaac confutes: ‘God can only be known by His attributes; And as for the indwelling of the Holy Ghost, Or of Christ and His Father, it’s all a boast And pride, and vanity of the imagination, That disdains to follow this world’s fashion.’ To teach doubt and experiment Certainly was not what Christ meant. What was He doing all that time, From twelve years old to manly prime? Was He then idle, or the less About His Father’s business? Or was His wisdom held in scorn Before His wrath began to burn In miracles throughout the land, That quite unnerv’d the Seraph band? If He had been Antichrist, Creeping Jesus, He’d have done anything to please us; Gone sneaking into synagogues, And not us’d the Elders and Priests like dogs; But humble as a lamb or ass Obey’d Himself to Caiaphas. God wants not man to humble himself: That is the trick of the Ancient Elf. This is the race that Jesus ran: Humble to God, haughty to man, Cursing the Rulers before the people Even to the Temple’s highest steeple, And when He humbled Himself to God Then descended the cruel rod. ‘If Thou Humblest Thyself, Thou humblest Me. Thou also dwell’st in Eternity. Thou art a Man: God is no more: Thy own Humanity learn to adore, For that is My spirit of life. Awake, arise to spiritual strife, And Thy revenge abroad display In terrors at the last Judgement Day. God’s mercy and long suffering Is but the sinner to judgement to bring. Thou on the Cross for them shalt pray— And take revenge at the Last Day.’ Jesus replied, and thunders hurl’d: ‘I never will pray for the world. Once I did so when I pray’d in the Garden; I wish’d to take with Me a bodily pardon.’ Can that which was of woman born, In the absence of the morn, When the Soul fell into sleep, And Archangels round it weep, Shooting out against the light Fibres of a deadly night, Reasoning upon its own dark fiction, In doubt which is self-contradiction? Humility is only doubt, And does the sun and moon blot out, Rooting over with thorns and stems The buried soul and all its gems. This life’s five windows of the soul Distorts the Heavens from pole to pole, And leads you to believe a lie When you see with, not thro’, the eye That was born in a night, to perish in a night, When the soul slept in the beams of light. Did Jesus teach doubt? or did He Give any lessons of philosophy, Charge Visionaries with deceiving, Or call men wise for not believing?… Was Jesus born of a Virgin pure With narrow soul and looks demure? If He intended to take on sin The Mother should an harlot been, Just such a one as Magdalen, With seven devils in her pen. Or were Jew virgins still more curs’d, And more sucking devils nurs’d? Or what was it which He took on That He might bring salvation? A body subject to be tempted, From neither pain nor grief exempted; Or such a body as might not feel The passions that with sinners deal? Yes, but they say He never fell. Ask Caiaphas; for he can tell.— ‘He mock’d the Sabbath, and He mock’d The Sabbath’s God, and He unlock’d The evil spirits from their shrines, And turn’d fishermen to divines; O’erturn’d the tent of secret sins, And its golden cords and pins, In the bloody shrine of war Pour’d around from star to star,— Halls of justice, hating vice, Where the Devil combs his lice. He turn’d the devils into swine That He might tempt the Jews to dine; Since which, a pig has got a look That for a Jew may be mistook. “Obey your parents.”—What says He? “Woman, what have I to do with thee? No earthly parents I confess: I am doing my Father’s business.” He scorn’d Earth’s parents, scorn’d Earth’s God, And mock’d the one and the other’s rod; His seventy Disciples sent Against Religion and Government— They by the sword of Justice fell, And Him their cruel murderer tell. He left His father’s trade to roam, A wand’ring vagrant without home; And thus He others’ labour stole, That He might live above control. The publicans and harlots He Selected for His company, And from the adulteress turn’d away God’s righteous law, that lost its prey.’ Was Jesus chaste? or did He Give any lessons of chastity? The Morning blushèd fiery red: Mary was found in adulterous bed; Earth groan’d beneath, and Heaven above Trembled at discovery of Love. Jesus was sitting in Moses’ chair. They brought the trembling woman there. Moses commands she be ston’d to death. What was the sound of Jesus’ breath? He laid His hand on Moses’ law; The ancient Heavens, in silent awe, Writ with curses from pole to pole, All away began to roll. The Earth trembling and naked lay In secret bed of mortal clay; On Sinai felt the Hand Divine Pulling back the bloody shrine; And she heard the breath of God, As she heard by Eden’s flood: ‘Good and Evil are no more! Sinai’s trumpets cease to roar! Cease, finger of God, to write! The Heavens are not clean in Thy sight. Thou art good, and Thou alone; Nor may the sinner cast one stone. To be good only, is to be A God or else a Pharisee. Thou Angel of the Presence Divine, That didst create this Body of Mine, Wherefore hast thou writ these laws And created Hell’s dark jaws? My Presence I will take from thee: A cold leper thou shalt be. Tho’ thou wast so pure and bright That Heaven was impure in thy sight, Tho’ thy oath turn’d Heaven pale, Tho’ thy covenant built Hell’s jail, Tho’ thou didst all to chaos roll With the Serpent for its soul, Still the breath Divine does move, And the breath Divine is Love. Mary, fear not! Let me see The seven devils that torment thee. Hide not from My sight thy sin, That forgiveness thou may’st win. Has no man condemnèd thee?’ ‘No man, Lord.’ ‘Then what is he Who shall accuse thee? Come ye forth, Fallen fiends of heavenly birth, That have forgot your ancient love, And driven away my trembling Dove. You shall bow before her feet; You shall lick the dust for meat; And tho’ you cannot love, but hate, Shall be beggars at Love’s gate. What was thy love? Let Me see it; Was it love or dark deceit?’ ‘Love too long from me has fled; ’Twas dark deceit, to earn my bread; ’Twas covet, or ’twas custom, or Some trifle not worth caring for; That they may call a shame and sin Love’s temple that God dwelleth in, And hide in secret hidden shrine The naked Human Form Divine, And render that a lawless thing On which the Soul expands its wing. But this, O Lord, this was my sin, When first I let these devils in, In dark pretence to chastity Blaspheming Love, blaspheming Thee, Thence rose secret adulteries, And thence did covet also rise. My sin Thou hast forgiven me; Canst Thou forgive my blasphemy? Canst Thou return to this dark hell, And in my burning bosom dwell? And canst Thou die that I may live? And canst Thou pity and forgive?’ Then roll’d the shadowy Man away From the limbs of Jesus, to make them His prey, An ever devouring appetite, Glittering with festering venoms bright; Crying ‘Crucify this cause of distress, Who don’t keep the secrets of holiness! The mental powers by diseases we bind; But He heals the deaf, the dumb, and the blind. Whom God has afflicted for secret ends, He comforts and heals and calls them friends.’ But, when Jesus was crucified, Then was perfected His galling pride. In three nights He devour’d His prey, And still He devours the body of clay; For dust and clay is the Serpent’s meat, Which never was made for Man to eat. Seeing this False Christ, in fury and passion I made my voice heard all over the nation. What are those… I am sure this Jesus will not do, Either for Englishman or Jew. William Blake (1757-1827) “Shall I call him artist or genius – or mystic – or madman?” -HCR An English poet, painter, and printmaker. He was largely unrecognised during his lifetime, but is now considered a seminal figure in the history of both the poetry and visual arts of the Romantic Age. Considered mad by contemporaries for his idiosyncratic views, he is held in high regard by later critics for his expressiveness and creativity, and for the philosophical and mystical undercurrents within his work. His preoccupation with good and evil as well as his strong philosophical and religious beliefs remained throughout his life, and he never stopped depicting them in his poetry and engravings. One of Blake’s main influences was the society in which he lived. ("...born in a period of imperialistic wars, coming to maturity during the American Revolution and to the full bloom of his genius during the French Revolution, aware of impending economic change and sick to the bone of ruling hypocrisy, he viewed the events of his own days as the fulfilment of prophecy…”) source(s): http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-everlasting-gospel/ http://www.poemhunter.com/william-blake/biography/

Essay on Man (Epistle I, Verse II, lines 35-76) Presumptuous Man! the reason wouldst thou find, Why form'd so weak, so little, and so blind! First, if thou canst, the harder reason guess, Why form'd no weaker, blinder, and no less! Ask of thy mother earth, why oaks are made Taller or stronger than the weeds they shade? Or ask of yonder argent fields above, Why JOVE'S Satellites are less than JOVE? Of Systems possible, if 'tis confest That Wisdom infinite must form the best, Where all must, full or not, coherent be, And all that rises, rise in due degree; Then, in the scale of reas'ning life, 'tis plain There must be, somewhere, such rank as Man; And all the question (wrangle e'er so long) Is only this, if God has plac'd him wrong? Respecting Man, whatever wrong we call, Nay, must be right, as relative to all. In human works, tho' labour'd on with pain, A thousand movements scarce one purpose gain; In God's, one single can its end produce; Yet serves to second too some other use. So Man, who here seems principal alone, Perhaps acts second to some sphere unknown, Touches some wheel, or verges to some goal; 'Tis but a part we see, and not a whole. When the proud steed shall know why Man restrains His fiery course, or drives him o'er the plains; When the dull Ox, why now he breaks the clod, Is now a victim, and now Egypt's God: Then shall Man's pride and dullness comprehend His actions', passions', being's, use and end; Why doing, suff'ring, check'd, impell'd; and why This hour a slave, the next a deity. Then say not Man's imperfect, Heav'n in fault; Say rather, Man's as perfect as he ought; His knowledge measur'd to his state and place, His time a moment, and a point his space. If to be perfect in a certain sphere, What matter, soon or late, or here or there? The blest today is as completely so, As who began a thousand years ago. by Alexander Pope (1688-1744) An 18th-century English poet, best known for his satirical verse and for his translation of Homer. He is the third-most frequently quoted writer in The Oxford Dictionary of Quotations, after Shakespeare and Tennyson. Pope's use of the heroic couplet is famous. The Essay on Man is a philosophical poem, written in heroic couplets and published between 1732 and 1734. Pope intended this poem to be the centrepiece of a proposed system of ethics that was to be put forth in poetic form. It was a piece of work that Pope intended to make into a larger work; however, he did not live to complete it. The poem is an attempt to "vindicate the ways of God to Man," a variation on Milton's attempt in Paradise Lost to "justify the ways of God to Man" (1.26). It challenges as prideful an anthropocentric world-view. The poem is not solely Christian; however, it makes an assumption that man has fallen and must seek his own salvation. It consists of four epistles that are addressed to Lord Bolingbroke. Pope presents an idea or his view on the Universe; he says that no matter how imperfect, complex, inscrutable and disturbing the Universe appears to be, it functions in a rational fashion according to the natural laws. The natural laws consider the Universe as a whole a perfect work of God. To humans it appears to be evil and imperfect in many ways; however, Pope points out that this is due to our limited mindset and limited intellectual capacity. Pope gets the message across that humans must accept their position in the "Great Chain of Being" which is at a middle stage between the angels and the beasts of the world. If we are able to accomplish this then we potentially could lead happy and virtuous lives. The poem is an affirmative poem of faith: life seems to be chaotic and confusing to man when he is in the center of it, but according to Pope it is really divinely ordered. In Pope's world God exists and is what he centres the Universe around in order to have an ordered structure. The limited intelligence of man can only take in tiny portions of this order and can experience only partial truths, hence man must rely on hope which then leads into faith. Man must be aware of his existence in the Universe and what he brings to it, in terms of riches, power and fame. It is man's duty to strive to be good regardless of other situations: this is the message Pope is trying to get across to the reader. sources: http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/essay-on-man/ http://www.poemhunter.com/alexander-pope/biography/

I would like to request for the Icelandic Gambit for the X-openings duels in September 2016 I hope you would consider this opening!

Hi, so I know this group is super into rare but fairly playable openings, and I think I've found one that's really interesting, any opinions on playing this? It basically forces white from playing some mainline where black is forced into passivity, but is super risky from what I've seen

From 'the Cross' by John Donne Who can blot out the Cross, which the instrument Of God, dewed on me in the Sacrament? Who can deny me power, and liberty To stretch mine arms, and mine own Cross to be? Swim, and at every stroke, thou art thy Cross; The Mast and yard make one, where seas do toss; Look down, thou spiest out Crosses in small things; Look up, thou seest birds raised on crossed wings; All the Globes frame, and spheres, is nothing else But the Meridians crossing Parallels. Material Crosses then, good physic bee, But yet spiritual have chief dignity. These for extracted chemic medicine serve, And cure much better, and as well preserve; Then are you your own physic, or need none, When Stilled, or purged by tribulation. For when that Cross ungrudged, unto you sticks, Then are you to your self, a Crucifix. As perchance, Carvers do not faces make, But that away, which hid them there, do take; Let Crosses, so, take what hid Christ in thee, And be his image, or not his, but he. Ascension by John Donne Salute the last and everlasting day, Joy at the uprising of this Sun, and Son, Ye whose true tears, or tribulation Have purely washed, or burnt your drossy clay. Behold, the Highest, parting hence away, Lightens the dark clouds, which He treads upon; Nor doth He by ascending show alone, But first He, and He first enters the way. O strong Ram, which hast battered heaven for me! Mild Lamb, which with Thy Blood hast marked the path! Bright Torch, which shinest, that I the way may see! O, with Thy own Blood quench Thy own just wrath; And if Thy Holy Spirit my Muse did raise, Deign at my hands this crown of prayer and praise. John Donne (1572-1631) was an English poet, satirist, lawyer and priest. His poetry is noted for its vibrancy of language and inventiveness of metaphor, especially compared to that of his contemporaries. Donne's style is characterised by abrupt openings and various paradoxes, ironies and dislocations. He is considered a master of the metaphysical conceit, an extended metaphor that combines two vastly different ideas into a single idea, often using imagery. Source(s): http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/from-the-cross/ http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/ascension-14/ http://www.poemhunter.com/john-donne/biography/

The Resurrection (“Risorgimento”) (Note: Below is the second half of the poem, starting at verse 21) Who, from this heavy, heedless rest Awakens me again? What new, what magic power is this, I feel within me reign? Ye motions sweet, ye images, Ye throbs, illusions blest, Ah, no,--ye are not then shut out Forever from this breast? The glorious light of golden days Do ye again unfold? The old affections that I lost, Do I once more behold? Now, as I gaze upon the sky, Or on the verdant fields, Each thing with sorrow me inspires, And each a pleasure yields. The mountain, forest, and the shore Once more my heart rejoice; The fountain speaks to me once more, The sea hath found a voice. Who, after all this apathy, Restores to me my tears? Each moment, as I look around, How changed the world appears! Hath hope, perchance, O my poor heart, Beguiled thee of thy pain? Ah, no, the gracious smile of hope I ne'er shall see again. Nature bestowed these impulses, And these illusions blest; Their inborn influence, in me, By suffering was suppressed; But not annulled, not overcome By cruel blows of Fate; Nor by the inauspicious frown Of Truth, importunate! I know she has no sympathy For fond imaginings; I know that Nature, too, is deaf, Nor heeds our sufferings; That for our _good_ she nothing cares, Our _being_, only heeds; And with the sight of our distress Her wild caprices feeds. I know the poor man pleads in vain, For others' sympathy; That scornfully, or heedlessly, All from his presence flee; That both for genius and for worth, This age has no respect; That all who cherish lofty aims Are left to cold neglect. And you, ye eyes so tremulous With lustre all divine, I know how false your splendors are, Where no true love doth shine. No love mysterious and profound Illumes you with its glow; Nor gleams one spark of genial fire Beneath that breast of snow. Nay, it is wont to laugh to scorn Another's tender pain; The fervent flame of heavenly love To treat with cold disdain. Yet I with thankfulness once more The old illusions greet, And feel, with shock of pleased surprise, The heart within me beat. To thee alone this force renewed, This vital power I owe; From thee alone, my faithful heart, My only comforts flow. I feel it is the destiny Of every noble mind, In Fate, in Fortune, Beauty, and the World, An enemy to find: But while thou liv'st, nor yield'st to Fate, Contending without fear, I will not tax with cruelty The power that placed me here. Count Giacomo Leopardi (1798-1837) Prolific writer, translator, and thinker Giacomo Leopardi was born in the small provincial town of Recanati, Italy, during a time of political upheaval and unrest in Europe created by the French Revolution. Although his aristocratic family was affected by the instability of the region, Leopardi was tutored extensively under private priests from an early age, showing a remarkable talent and thirst for knowledge. As a sickly adolescent who was often confined to the household, Leopardi spent most of his time in his father’s extraordinary library, immersing himself in classical and philological knowledge. Risorgimento- In 1828, Leopardi returned to lyric poetry with Risorgimento ("Resurgence"). The poem is essentially a history of the spiritual development of the poet from the day in which he came to believe that every pulse of life had died out in his soul to the moment in which the lyrical and the sentimental were reawakened in him. A strange torpor had rendered him apathetic, indifferent to suffering, to love, to desire, and to hope. Life had seemed desolate to him until the ice began to melt and the soul, reawakening, finally felt the revivification of the ancient illusions. Having reconquered the gift of sentiment, the poet accepts life as it is because it is revived by the feeling of suffering which torments his heart and, so long as he lives, he will not rebel against those who condemn him to live. This recovered serenity consists in the contemplation of one's own conscience of one's own sentiments, even when desolation and despair envelop the soul. Leopardi rejoices to have rediscovered in himself the capacity to be moved and to experience pain, after a long period of impassibility and boredom. With Risorgimento, lyricism is reawakened in the poet, who composes canti, generally brief, in which a small spark or a scene is expanded, extending itself into an eternal vision of existence. He re-evokes images, memories and moments of past happiness. Source(s): http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-resurrection-6/ http://www.poemhunter.com/count-giacomo-leopardi/biography/

The Turning-Point At length I sickened, standing in the sun Truthful and for the Truth, whose only fees Are madness and sharp death. I bowed my knees And said: “As long as the world's years have run, These accents have been said and these things done: That which is mine abasement is their ease: They say, ‘Go to—all this is as we please: Shall we, being many, step aside for one?’ “And thus it is that though the air be new, And my brow finds the coolness it hath sought Through the slow-stricken night,—the daily curse Weighs on my soul of what I waken to: For though I loathe the price, this must be bought.”…Thou fool! Would'st buy from man what God confers? Dante Gabriel Rossetti (1828-1882) (An English poet, painter, illustrator and translator.) source(s): http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-turning-point-6/http://www.poemhunter.com/dante-gabriel-rossetti/biography/

First there was faith. Then came reason. Now, what? Before watching the movie scene below, I invite all members to consider the following lines of thinking: 1. On one hand, by "using the old bean" you might learn something in the process of thinking, but you will probably lose against a much stronger opponent. 2. On the other hand, if blind faith has someone else doing the thinking for you, even if you win, it can easily be all taken away because you have not learned anything in the process. So, the decision is yours once again to choose your course of action. Just remember this: "We are twice armed if we fight with faith." -Plato "Inherit the Wind" (1960) movie scene: The Power to Think (0:02:14) (source: http://movieclips.com)