Long Élan Poems
Long Élan Poems. Below are the most popular long Élan by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Élan poems by poem length and keyword.
Grandmother Always Encouraged
As I stood in front of the baroque painting
"Old Woman and a Boy with Candles", by Sir Peter Paul Rubens
instantly trigger a warped déjà vu.
An ebullient cacophony of absent voices I used to have with my grandmother.
She would give me carte blanche around her home.
It was an embarrassing anomaly I couldn't explain to my aunts.
By their standards I was a bona fide dilettante and ennui .
Grandmother always encouraged me in the creative avant-garde of arts
by using my imagination and a strong sense of élan
fantasy throughout my muse that I love.
1/18/2018
Poetry Contest: 'Ten words ten lines 2' Contest
Sponsored By: Silent One
For the very first time in my whole long life
Things are sailing along tickety boo
Don't ever remember a time quite like this
On top of the world cuz of you
You've turned my world all topsey turvey
Loving it, as happy as it gets
Been sailing along on cloud number nine
Haven't quite gotten over it yet
Probably never will and why would I want to
It's the greatest feeling known to man
This tickety boo feeling, this feeling of love
There's nothing to match this élan
If you think that it's some great formula
I'd simply say look in your heart
Everyone possesses this ability to find love
The heart's the best place to start
For the very first time in my whole long life
Things are sailing along tickety boo!
© Jack Ellison 2013
Silken whispers greet the blithe morning
damp mist spring tap on red oak door
joyful treat preempted faint dawning
Felicity a phase one can’t ignore
bright daffodil white and pink bloom
fragrant garden bouquet stuff of lore
Alyssum’s plump trailing mound may loom
where greyedging border might seem bare
ideal cluster wraparound March plume
Ever present awe inflames my stare
rampant green aroma gust blown sent
nearby rabbit chuckled in its lair
Ample rose bush color splash in lent
showcase of enduring floral sign
tints and tones that ruffle by assent
Snowdrop bells perennial align
sprout from moistened brown earth
on pebbled wall a green creeping vine
Embrace this heady seasonal birth
marvel at its blue spruce tapestry
exhale your élan vital of mirth
I saw it in one of those chintzy antique shops.
I recalled that it was made for travelling musicians
that wanted to work out scores while not being overheard.
It was old and all wood. When I tapped the keys
they clacked, but each key to me seemed to clack
in a slightly different tone,
as if the pianist’s thoughts and intentions
had somehow imprinted
a musical counterpart into the inarticulate wood.
When I got it home
I propped it up against a wall, poured myself a drink
and thought what a fool I was.
The ice cubes in my bourbon tinkled unmusically.
I stared at it.
‘You can’t even play a kazoo you idiot, what the …..!’
Later, a little drunk,
I took it up and placed it on a table,
stretched my stiff fingers and played.
I played like I had never played before!
This was real, not an air-guitar thing.
Chopin and Mozart flowed through my hands
as I sped through deft keyboard exercises,
labelling quarter and eighth notes, dashing off
aurally different meters,
executing perfect pitch and phrase.
After the warm-up I was ready for my public.
With much élan and gusto, I thundered through
a dramatic First Movement.
The Andante I performed next was hauntingly beautiful.
I swayed on my stool in a deep artistic trance.
An invisible audience gasped and yes, they stood and roared
their approval, as the last note of a sonata I had
just composed, concluded a fiery Allegro.
Tomorrow I intend to jazz-duet with Oscar Peterson.
Man, it’s good to be dumb.
I wore fear
like a winding sheet,
leaving behind trails
of dead dreams
I held hope in my hands
and weeping, it slid
through my fingers
evaporating to naught
I undulated to music
praying for redemption
within the passage,
I was left bereft, still, taciturn
but by relinquishing velleity
into the firmament,
and smashing my glass heart
for the loves' of my life
I've begun to believe
in miracles again,
I am finding the way
that comforts my soul
A shimmering
lavender light,
shines with serenity
burns out the fear
and builds a blaze of hope,
by loving without doubt
the whips of regret
are now unmoving
fires have been stoked,
this mystery now has élan
I am flesh, reborn out
and into this life, once again.
She was still young, just a simple and irksome dilettante.
Her airs of arrogance and misplaced confidence were difficult to bear.
She played the piano but without an ear for it.
She abused her carte blanche, pleased, believing feigned interest was genuine.
She was all too easily duped by bona fide politeness and false compliments.
Be it avant-garde or baroque, the cacophony she created was no anomaly.
Déja vu for the captive audience, it’s a rerun from last year’s crude recital.
Guests are stunned and in shock, but too polite to outwardly show ennui.
With élan they applaud voraciously ever so very thankful it’s all over.
They clamor feverishly so there will not be another void needing to be filled.
AP: 1st place 2020
Submitted for contest TEN WORDS TEN LINES 2 sponsored by SILENT ONE on January 14, 2018 - RANKED 2ND
Form:
Ever brew tea in an industrial brewer?
I did just yesterday with a tea bag fewer
then more have seen. I watched it drip
mixing water with steam and drip leaving
lines in between, the loose leaves.of tea.
A star pattern there when I peeked to see
what a tea maker brews inside of a T.
And when the heat hit my eyes I realized
what was so familiar to me...'do mine path'
was inscribed in the leaves.
I considered to know what I believe.
I paused to consider what might deceive.
Just and before I tossed the leaves.
... smiles.
you ARE a dope and I'm knot mean. Just
neurotic transmission of the secret unseen.
A VEnue open to peace in the mind
blowing open holes that Time left behind.
It's a network framed in a windy rhyme.
It's a new avenue and a way to be kind.
Well.come.to the filters mind. A pleasure
of a center that we all can find.
Neurotransmitter. A natural ChiMe.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dopamine
Dopamine was first synthesized in 1910 by George Barger and James Ewens at Wellcome
Laboratories in London, England.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Qi
Ch'i
Qi
It is frequently translated as "energy flow," and is often compared to Western notions of
energeia or élan vital (vitalism) as well as the yogic notion of prana. The literal
translation is "air," "breath," or "gas" (compare the original meaning of Latin spiritus
"breathing"; or the Common Greek p?e?µa, meaning "air," "breath," or "spirit"; and the
Sanskrit term prana, "breath" ).
Form:
Before He was born in this earth,
Angel announced Christ Jesus' birth;
When He was born, a tiny boy,
Angels declared it - Oh! What joy!
He grew up, not with much élan,
But in favour with God and man;
After fasting, came temptation,
Then came angels' ministration;
Three and a half years of preaching,
With His Love to people reaching;
Then He went to Gethsamane,
Praying there in deep agony,
An angel came down from heaven,
Just, in order, Him to strengthen;
He hung on the cross sinister,
No angels came to minister;
An eternity of silence
Followed His affliction intense;
On the third day morning, they came,
Christ's resurrection to proclaim;
On the mount after forty days,
He ascended 'midst angels' praise;
Right from birth till His ascension,
In Christ's life, they had a mention.
Ev'n today, angels are singing,
With His praise, heavens are ringing
He sends them down to protect us,
When we choose to serve Lord Jesus.
08/08/18
As a certified, bona fide woman of a grown-up sixteen,
she light-stepped with grace thru the baroque castle.
She wanted to tell her Father of the déjà vu she gleaned
at last night’s élan party scene with a man who dazzled.
She gave her fantasies carte blanche to freely travel
for she was but a love dilettante, still romance green
and unsure what her anomaly feelings could mean.
She found the King, Father, leaning on an avant-garde mantel,
his manner ennui, despite the cacophony of swords at cavil.
Knowing her, he said, "No talk of new suiters, many already battle."
... CayCay Jennings
January 25, 2018
I'm a poet through and through,
Though I cannot explain to you
How it happened or what it was
That led me to it.
I didn't set out to pursue it,
I just, one day, began to do it,
And then ten years blinked by
Almost before I knew it.
The poems I pen are mostly true,
Though now and then I stretch a few.
To imbue lines with more élan
Is why I do it.
The verse to which I lend my name
Won't tend to fortune nor to fame,
But I'll keep scribbling just the same
And never rue it.
My heart and soul are in my style,
If I can make one reader smile,
My efforts will have been worthwhile,
Although I may never know it.
I'm no Shelley, Keats, or Poe,
Or Frost, or Nash, but even so,
I hope in time my rhymes will show
That I'm a poet.