The Glass Bead Poetry Game

darkmaas

Literotica Guru
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About a year ago, at the height of the lavalamp-as-universal-metaphor craze, I was cybernetically chewing the fat with another Lit. poet, and we considered a poetry game. At the time there were fewer active poets on the board and I felt that there was not enough “critical mass” to make this game work. But times change and looking at the recent new poems, I think its time for ….


THE GLASS BEAD POETRY GAME


The game is loosely based on “Das Glasperlenspiel” by Hermann Hesse. Don’t let that put you off. No need to speak German or even embrace Hesse’s world view. The rules are simple.

The game starts with a poem. A player then takes something from that poem, a phrase, an image, an allusion, the rhyme scheme, even a word, and creates a new poem by riffing (if you will) on the original. Subsequent players may riff on the original poem or any subsequent poem (or poems.) Extra “points” for linking two poems (for instance) thematically.

Easy enough. This sort of thing has been happening already on the board from time to time in the passion thread and more recently the perfect ten thread.

Riffing on someone’s poem says two things. The original poem was good enough to warrant expanding on but that the riffer has something better to say. If no one is riffing on your poem it means either that it is so good that there is nothing more to be said, or that (more likely) it sucks so badly that no one wants to to get any slime on them. It is an honour to have many people riff on your poem. Clever poets will quickly realize that dangling juicy metaphors (like literary fish hooks) encourages others to pick up their poems.

The game allows for (in fact encourages) a peanut gallery. Anyone may comment, either with praise or condemnation, on any posted poems. To be in the peanut gallery you must have posted at least one poem.

A word about format. Make life easier by first quoting the poem(s) you are starting from. It’s also polite to name the poet.
 
As a starting poem, I have chosen one of Hesse’s from the novel, so as not to intimidate. Great novelists may not always make great poets or perhaps we can blame the turgid translation….

It's about as close as he gets to erotic.




BUT SECRETLY WE THIRST. . .

Graceful as dancer's arabesque and bow,
Our lives appear serene and without stress,
A gentle dance around pure nothingness
To which we sacrifice the here and now.

Our dreams are lovely and our game is bright,
So finely tuned, with many artful turns,
But deep beneath the tranquil surface burns
Longing for blood, barbarity, and night.

Freely our life revolves, and every breath
Is free as air; we live so playfully,
But secretly we crave reality:
Begetting, birth, and suffering, and death.
 
darkmaas said:
As a starting poem...

BUT SECRETLY WE THIRST. . .

Graceful as dancer's arabesque and bow,
Our lives appear serene and without stress,
A gentle dance around pure nothingness
To which we sacrifice the here and now.

Our dreams are lovely and our game is bright,
So finely tuned, with many artful turns,
But deep beneath the tranquil surface burns
Longing for blood, barbarity, and night.

Freely our life revolves, and every breath
Is free as air; we live so playfully,
But secretly we crave reality:
Begetting, birth, and suffering, and death.

Blood, barbarity, and night
gushing in tranquil arcs of
air, civility and light.

Birth, suffering and death
secretly, openly steal
age, joyfullness and breath

Free, liberated through flight
craving fulfilled escape from
blood, barbarity and night.

Xtaabay
 
darkmaas said:
BUT SECRETLY WE THIRST. . . by Hermann Hesse

Graceful as dancer's arabesque and bow,
Our lives appear serene and without stress,
A gentle dance around pure nothingness
To which we sacrifice the here and now.

Our dreams are lovely and our game is bright,
So finely tuned, with many artful turns,
But deep beneath the tranquil surface burns
Longing for blood, barbarity, and night.

Freely our life revolves, and every breath
Is free as air; we live so playfully,
But secretly we crave reality:
Begetting, birth, and suffering, and death.
Archived elsewhere
 
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But No Answers

Who knows what our souls know?
Who knows? We live from day
to day if not in coffee spoons,
then hours, dropping pain in fear
of love or hope or loss remaining,
dropping slow against the veils of time.

We spin in timeless arcs of arabesque,
spill pearls in seven vales of tears,
dance lithely, bearing plaited heads
before a weary king whose old soul cries
that death is no release from suffering,

and asks O how can dancing veiled
make broken voices sing? Dear soul,
give thanks the world bears love
enough to rain a balm of mercy down
before the taking of a toast and tea.

You ask the pale moon's eye about deceit,
or ask the stars that watch unblinking
through a veil of shattered history
why we’re bound in words unspoken,
written deep within the heart, but poured
with tears of ink upon a page in poetry.

Love is not barbarity.

To touch souls is to love,
to give up half is to be whole.
Don’t bleed in vengeance or in hate,
but let the tears that fall in wars
of blood or roses bleed for grace,
extending drifts of willow fronds
like hands that reach in charity.

Don’t ask who calls so loud,
for human voices haven’t downed;
our souls are sound, our soundless
songs are somehow sung on wings
of faith, not knowing god but still
spirits sing.
 
Last edited:
Xtaabay said:
Blood, barbarity, and night
gushing in tranquil arcs of
air, civility and light.

Birth, suffering and death
secretly, openly steal
age, joyfullness and breath

Free, liberated through flight
craving fulfilled escape from
blood, barbarity and night.

Xtaabay
archived elsewhere
 
Last edited:
DEPARTURES

The moon bleeds drops of luminescence,
Like pearls, glowing beads of ichor fall,
Drizzling cool opalescence,
Upon the deceitful pond.

Beneath the tranquil, moonlit face,
A sweeping current flows,
As lithe as a dancer's grace,
Or a willow's whispering fronds.

The breeze slips through the leaves,
With artful, turning arabesques.
Craving reality, perversly, man grieves
Ghosts held by Purgatory's bond.

But still the moon glows with Life's essence,
As souls pass without leaving a trace
Of that fabric warped in time's skillful weaves,
History's roving vagabonds.

by Champagne1982

beads of ichor frozen
crystalline
like rubies on a string
hanging against the breast of time
gently heaving
marking Luna’s cycle
with each breath
trace the arc of passing souls
which in their multitude
shimmer like the northern lights
 
Angeline said:
But No Answers

Who knows what our souls know?
Who knows? We live from day
to day if not in coffee spoons,
then hours, dropping pain in fear
of love or hope or loss remaining,
dropping slow against the veils of time.

We spin in timeless arcs of arabesque,
spill pearls in seven vales of tears,
dance lithely, bearing plaited heads
before a weary king whose old soul cries
that death is no release from suffering,

and asks O how can dancing veiled
make broken voices sing? Dear soul,
give thanks the world bears love
enough to rain a balm of mercy down
before the taking of a toast and tea.

You ask the pale moon's eye about deceit,
or ask the stars that watch unblinking
through a veil of shattered history
why we’re bound in words unspoken,
written deep within the heart, but poured
with tears of ink upon a page in poetry.

Love is not barbarity.

To touch souls is to love,
to give up half is to be whole.
Don’t bleed in vengeance or in hate,
but let the tears that fall in wars
of blood or roses bleed for grace,
extending drifts of willow fronds
like hands that reach in charity.

Don’t ask who calls so loud,
for human voices haven’t downed;
our souls are sound, our soundless
songs are somehow sung on wings
of faith, not knowing god but still
spirits sing.
archived elsewhere
 
Last edited:
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