FIDE doesn’t function

Perhaps it will under the new administration. This is almost two months old but worth reading even after the FIDE election.

In order to understand whether FIDE works efficiently, we conducted a comprehensive analysis of the budget of this organization. Our analysis relied on open data that is published annually by the treasurer. Not being a specialist in finance, I recruited a well-known financial analyst to this work. I?d...

Poem of the day

Mynstrelles Songe
by Thomas Chatterton (1752-1770)

O! synge untoe mie roundelaie,
O! droppe the brynie teare wythe mee,
Daunce ne moe atte hallie daie,
Lycke a reynynge ryver bee;
         Mie love ys dedde,
         Gon to hys death-bedde,
         Al under the wyllowe tree.

Black hys cryne as the wyntere nyghte,
Whyte hys rode as the sommer snowe,
Rodde hys face as the mornynge lyghte,
Cale he lyes ynne the grave belowe;
         Mie love ys dedde,
         Gon to hys death-bedde,
         Al under the wyllowe tree.

Swote hys tyngue as the throstles note,
Quycke ynn daunce as thoughte canne bee,
Defte hys taboure, codgelle stote,
O! hee lyes bie the wyllowe tree:
         Mie love ys dedde,
         Gon to hys death-bedde,
         Al under the wyllowe tree.

Harke! the ravenne flappes hys wynge,
In the briered delle belowe;
Harke! the dethe-owle loude dothe synge,
To the nyghte-mares as heie goe;
         Mie love ys dedde,
         Gon to hys death-bedde,
         Al under the wyllowe tree.

See! the whyte moone sheenes onne hie;
Whyterre ys mie true loves shroude;
Whyterre yanne the mornynge skie,
Whyterre yanne the evenynge cloude;
         Mie love ys dedde,
         Gon to hys death-bedde,
         Al under the wyllowe tree.

Heere, uponne mie true loves grave,
Schalle the baren fleurs be layde,
Nee one hallie Seyncte to save
Al the celness of a mayde.
         Mie love ys dedde,
         Gon to hys death-bedde,
         Al under the wyllowe tree.

Wythe mie hondes I’lle dente the brieres
Rounde his hallie corse to gre,
Ouphante fairie, lyghte youre fyres,
Heere mie boddie stylle schall bee.
         Mie love ys dedde,
         Gon to hys death-bedde,
         Al under the wyllowe tree.

Comme, wythe acorne-coppe and thorne,
Drayne mie hartys blodde awaie;
Lyfe and all yttes goode I scorne,
Daunce bie nete, or feaste by daie.
         Mie love ys dedde,
         Gon to hys death-bedde,
         Al under the wyllowe tree.

Waterre wytches, crownede wythe reytes,
Bere mee to yer leathalle tyde.
I die; I comme; mie true love waytes.
Thos the damselle spake, and dyed.

Poem of the day

by Robert Sidney (1563-1626)

Who gives himself may ill his words deny.
My words gave me to you, my words I gave
Still to be yours; you speech and speaker have:
Me to my words, my words to you I tie.Long ere I was, I was by destiny
Unto your love ordained, a free bound slave—
Destiny which me to my own choice drave
And to my ends made me my will apply.

For ere on earth in you true beauty came,
My first breath I had drawn, upon the day
Sacred to you, blessèd in your fair name,
And all the days and hours I since do spend
Are but the fatal, wishèd time to slay
To seal the bands of service without end.

Game of the week

Poem of the day

Tempora Mutantur
by W.S. Gilbert (1836-1911)

Letters, letters, letters, letters,
   Some that please and some that bore,
Some that threaten prison fetters
(Metaphorically, fetters,
Such as bind insolvent debtors)—
   Invitations by the score.

   My attorneys, off the Strand,
One from COPPERBLOCK, my tailor—
My unreasonable tailor—
   One in FLAGG’S disgusting hand.

One from EPHRAIM and MOSES,
   Wanting coin without a doubt,
I should like to pull their noses—
Their uncompromising noses;
One from ALICE with the roses,
   Ah, I know what that’s about!

Time was when I waited, waited,
   For the missives that she wrote.
Humble postmen execrated—
Loudly, deeply execrated—
When I heard I wasn’t fated
   To be gladdened with a note.

Time was when I’d not have bartered
   Of her little pen a dip
For a peerage duly gartered—
For a peerage starred and gartered—
With a palace-office chartered—
   Or a Secretaryship!

But the time for that is over,
   And I wish we’d never met.
I’m afraid I’ve proved a rover—
I’m afraid a heartless rover—
Quarters in a place like Dover
   Tend to make a man forget.

Now I can accord precedence
   To my tailor, for I do
Want to know if he gives credence—
An unwarrantable credence—
   To my proffered I O U!

Bills for carriages and horses,
   Bills for wine and light cigar,
Matters that concern the Forces—
News that may affect the Forces—
News affecting my resources,
   Now unquestioned take the pas.

And the tiny little paper,
   With the words that seem to run
From her little fingers taper
(They are very small and taper),
By the tailor and the draper
   Are in interest outdone!

And unopened it’s remaining!
   I can read her gentle hope—
Her entreaties, uncomplaining
(She was always uncomplaining)—
Her devotion never waning—
   Through the little envelope!

Poem of the day

Norse Lullaby
by Eugene Field (1850-1895)

The sky is dark and the hills are white
      As the storm-king speeds from the north to-night;
And this is the song the storm-king sings,
As over the world his cloak he flings:
      “Sleep, sleep, little one, sleep;”
He rustles his wings and gruffly sings:
      “Sleep, little one, sleep.”

On yonder mountain-side a vine
Clings at the foot of a mother pine;
The tree bends over the trembling thing,
And only the vine can hear her sing:
      “Sleep, sleep, little one, sleep—
What shall you fear when I am here?
      Sleep, little one, sleep.”

The king may sing in his bitter flight,
The pine may croon to the vine to-night,
But the little snowflake at my breast
Liketh the song I sing the best—
      “Sleep, sleep, little one, sleep;
Weary thou art, anext my heart;
      Sleep, little one, sleep.”