Long Orchestra Poems
Long Orchestra Poems. Below are the most popular long Orchestra by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Orchestra poems by poem length and keyword.
“Beethoven's Fifth Symphony is the most sublime noise that has ever
penetrated into the ear of man or woman.” Quote: E. M. Forster
" Poem is enhanced if symphony plays while poem is read" The poet.
Bold navy as dark and pure as the cold frosty night.
Chilled season’s symphony opens with eight notes come what might.
Short blast followed by long note repeated short followed by long.
Thunder has begun it’s familiar fifth symphony song.
Leaving the listener unsure what to expect all alone.
Beethoven switches to a lighter tune instead of his dark tone.
A tinkling as the rain begins, he uses spiccato to give perfect light.
A less grand repetition of the original notes as winds take flight.
Building in anticipation until the climax of the first theme.
A solo of horns, a transition with the loss of the sun’s beam.
The sky produces an aqua hue by each blinding lightning flash.
Thunder roars, the sky now a soft pastel hue as wind and hail crash.
Beethoven offers bridges to weld the grandeur of his blizzard prone play.
Frost is forming turning the sapphire hue fading to a pastel bouquet.
Following, suspense of his opening the piano takes us to strings.
Full orchestra, Da Darrr Da -Darrr Da Darrr Da -Darrr it springs.
Tempo lighter, airier which is juxtaposed with the timpani drums.
The soft gentle snow, now hurtled by deafening wind, silence comes.
For the second stream of Beethoven’s sonata allegro its making way.
Cyan-tinged icicles decorate the surroundings, peace resumes her sway
Season’s storm has freshened the landscape with her blanket so soft.
She delights in her brilliant accompaniment, her décor of beryl aloft.
This icy mistress is here to wash and cool this part of the earth.
Give thanks for mountains capped, lakes frozen, hot cocoa for its worth.
Mystery shrouds the star lit night
As lovers exposed to evening delights
In masks we dance, we all go around
Who is who, do we really know?
Who is Romeo and who is to die?
Ladies in waiting, do their waltz
As the Lady of the evening bathes at dusk
Champagne glasses in pink do reflect
All the Shakespeare penned, indirect
For its he that said we love to decept
Young lovers will hold onto devotions
Choose between Montague and Capulet
For lances of blood forever thrust
Into the loser of Williams tales
Mademoiselle is saddened by wilted rose
She smashes to pieces all her dreams
The waltz of knights and lovers will end
She had to choose between Montague and Capulet
She chose first the arrow, for hearts don’t mend
Shakespeare wins yet once more
For with my saber, I drank champagne
And read this tale yet once again!
Montague and Capulet on horses rode
As Sergei pondered and composed
Juliette just shed her tears
Dancing Knights have no fear
The ballet of love makes one shake
As the Knight lances his final spear
The irony of classic tales
Old stories we hold so dear
Notes
Where to begin! Well although this seems somewhat about Romeo and Juliette, its actually based on a song, that well its also a muse on Romeo and Juliette.
The song/artist is
Alizée - Mademoiselle Juliette
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WyUXWgmEvE8
Although Montagues and Capulets are characters in Shakespeare’s story, "Montagues and Capulets", is also known as "Dance of the Knights", a work of classical music written by Russian composer Sergei Prokofiev for his 1935 ballet Romeo and Juliet. Later, he wrote versions for both orchestra and piano.
Thus the Title of the poem, and the mention of Sergei in the poem.
His composition can be viewed at:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YMrSPOWrYGA
The line “For with my saber, I drank champagne “
In the old days, Champagne was actually opened with a saber on some occasions. Though it's rare to use a sword these days, the expression "to Saber champagne" still is in usage in French.
So an English Tale became a Russian Symphony piece and a French Muse, and now a Canadian poem!
Once upon a time...
Once upon a time, in France, a storyteller fella
Wrote of a girl named Cinderella,
Meant as a fairy tale romance.
Her daddy died when she was young, and she was forced to share his riches
With three monumental b****es,
A most unhappy circumstance.
For years her stepmom and stepsibs made her perform a menial's duty,
And as she blossomed into beauty,
They grew more hateful, mean, and cruel.
Each night they dined on fine cuisine and wore lace dresses with silk sashes,
While she wore rags begrimed with ashes,
And got just crusts of bread and gruel.
Then one day a herald from the king demanded entry
To the homes of landed gentry,
They were invited one and all.
It was the prince's eighteenth birthday, and the king and queen were harried
Because their son was not yet married.
Ergo, the reason for the ball.
The stepsisters primped and preened and wild excitement they exuded,
When Cindy asked to be included, they gaped at her as if appalled.
Stepmother sneered, "Look here, I'll show you!"
With self-righteous indignation,
"Your name's not on the invitation.
Just we elite are so installed."
So Cinderella went downstairs to seek some solace in the kitchen,
But 'stead of sittin' there and b****in', she started dancing with a broom.
She whirled and twirled around the floor,
Or else she'd stand there, gently swaying,
As if an orchestra was playing
Pretending they were bride and groom.
And then a flash, a crash of thunder, and to Cindy's stunned amazement,
There gliding through the kitchen casement,
A pudgy lady dressed in blue.
She said, "Hello, my dear, no fear, I'm here to grant your secret wishes,
I'll wave my wand and clear the dishes,
And make a princess out of you!"
She waved and tapped and flicked and zapped,
And what she seemed to make the air do
Was give her make-up, nails, and hair-do,
And then to make the look complete,
Out of those rags so soiled and worn and far too torn to drown a cat in,
A gown of gossamer and satin, and crystal slippers on her feet.
Without this timely intervention, Cindy's tale might have been tragic.
Could she have managed without magic,
And her dilemma be resolved?
But everybody knows what happened with a gourd and six white mice,
And how a smudgy scullery maid was made to clean up really nice,
When a fairy got involved.
To be continued...
We’ve introduced our grandkids
To the music we adore –
That’s classical or rock & roll;
They always ask for more.
For Henry’s coming birthday,
I procured a perfect book –
An intro to the orchestra;
A CD was the hook.
Describing all the instruments,
Composers for them, too,
It indicates which track to play
So all will get their due.
I realized, though, belatedly –
You’ll know before I say it –
That Henry’s house (unlike my own)
Has no place he can play it!
We listen to the radio
(Alexa helps, as well)
And in the car, for longer drives,
Some kids’ CD’s do dwell.
But modern homes have relegated
CD’s to the past.
Like hi-fi’s, LP’s and cassettes,
Of course, they couldn’t last.
Content Creative
--------------------------
By Rhapsodes" The Muckraker"
The Elaborate Composition
He dealt with the subject as only he could.
He was the leader of the Organization
the conductor of the Orchestra, the leader
of the band. first chair in the Ensemble.
It was rather unpleasant for him to remove
most of the material presented him. He felt
it outdated and often very unappealing.
He offered the presenters advice.
Trick me into liking it, rearrange it make it
more presentable for a modern audience.
I'd rather keep interest into what I am already
doing, and not have to relearn according to whoever
what we are doing now is effective and in a
manner of storying our time together this
does not make sense in into what's going on.
"I do like the songs: but the sounds are out dated!"
The storms of spring the following morning
bought him back into someone else's office.
We would sound as if we had been asked to
go somewhere and relearn our trade, redefine
our sound or adjust to something someone else
was doing. Diaspora does not define our present
state as we are today. Now if you wanted to make
pretend we had built a time machine to travel back
in time to do a video: or incorporate ancient
instruments into a modern sound that's cool.
But to do a ""way back song"
from nowhere sounds far fetched.
He played the cello with such finesse
Clutching his instrument tight to his chest
As if he was channelling his very own heartbeat
In every stroke ~ in every note
Investing so much with each lift of his bow
His flamboyant gestures mesmerised me so
An artiste creating a masterpiece
Tantalising
Teasing
Tempting
Tormenting
For he was ~ he became that cello
For he was ~ a most talented fellow
Any inhibitions gone
his soul immersed in every song
On reaching the finale
this man was truly spent
his outstanding performance
was surely heaven sent…
Written 8th October 2019
3rd PLACE
Contest STRAND SPECIAL 8
Sponsor Brian Strand
I wrote this after attending a most wonderfully uplifting performance by the World renowned Bournemouth Symphony Orchestra, who performed at the Royal Albert Hall, London. This poem was inspired by their principal cello player, who put his heart and soul into every note he played!
That first book
That last book
That next book
That other book
Beginning and ending in the middle
—they all turn out the same
The first book
The last book
The middle book
The forgotten book
Memory plagues that already said
—only to be said again
The first book
The last book
The borrowed book
The successful book
Images recreated
—as words jump page to page
The first book
The last book
The closing book
The memory book
An orchestra calls a final waltz
—its conductor off the stage
The promised book
The distant book
The transforming book
The forever book
Sameness trapped a clone of time
—as difference strikes again
That finished book
That published book
That famous book
That holy book
All critics choking in the dark
—light burning end to end
(Villanova Pennsylvania: February, 2014)
One year on
will I be gone
For no one really knows
when those final doors will close
Before goodbyes, adios, au revoirs
I yearn to go out with a bang
if I can
to swim with dolphins
to sing and to dance
to play in an orchestra
a piano perchance
For the last few years
I’ve cried so many tears
and the future is looking no better
So to cheer myself up
I write my future self
an uplifting, inspirational letter
Dearest Me
I send this plea
to hear my heart sing
a jolly 'ting a ling'
With no more tears
With no more fears
As I happily spend my final years
In a world inside my head
singing and dancing instead
Beneath blue skies ~ no sign of cloud
I am joyously living life out loud
Onwards and upwards no stopping me now
as I
climb the tallest mountain
board
a spaceship to the moon
and
with gossamer wings
I will fly like a bird
as I sing aloud
the sweetest song
that you have ever heard
So no time left for letter writing
My life ahead looks so exciting…
Written 19th September 2021
Contest Letter to your future self
Sponsor Silent One
3rd Place
Contest A STRAND (1049)
Sponsor Brian Strand
FIRST PLACE
I am a blizzard; you are a flurry:
you are the tea leaves, I am the teapot.
A Lancelot and Guinevere combo:
you're the key; I'm the lock to Camelot.
I am a fantasy; you are a dream:
you're a blazing sun; I am a lit match.
I am a firefly; you're a twinkling star:
you're an itch; I'm a satisfying scratch.
I'm the universe; you are the Big Bang:
you're a shooting star; I'm a starry night.
I'm Quasimodo, you are Notre Dame:
you are the main course; I'm the appetite.
I'm a violin, you're an orchestra:
you are my melody, and I'm your song.
I am a tango, you are a ballet:
not quite the same; that's why we get along.
Ambered hues in faded frames, a bygone era's smile,
Bakelite whispers of forgotten songs, on a crackling vinyl isle.
Daguerreotypes, ghosts of laughter, dance in sepia light,
Embers of a childhood fire, casting warmth in the night.
Flickering candlelight paints stories on the wall,
Gramophone's melancholic tune, a memory's gentle call.
Handwritten lines on aged paper, secrets whispered in ink,
Inkwell, a well of forgotten thoughts, where dreams used to blink.
Jug of milk on the doorstep, a childhood morning's grace,
Kaleidoscope's swirling colours, a forgotten smile's embrace.
Lamplight whispers lullabies, casting shadows on the wall,
Melodies of simpler times, a haunting, distant call.
Napkin stained with laughter's trace, a picnic in the sun,
Orchestra of crickets chirping, as the day is almost done.
Phonograph's scratchy serenade, a song from long ago,
Quilt of memories, stitched together, with love's eternal glow.
The rocking chair creaks a lullaby, a rhythm soft and slow,
Sepia-toned nostalgia, a bittersweet afterglow.
Tin lunchbox, a dented friend, on adventures by my side,
Unwinding in a simpler time, where worries used to hide.
Vaudeville's faded laughter echoes in the dusty air,
Waltz of forgotten promises, a love that used to care.
Xylophone's forgotten tune, a child's playful delight,
Yearning for the warmth of then, bathed in memory's gentle light.
Zephyr whispers through the leaves, carrying a scent of what used to be,
Life is full of nostalgic moments, a bittersweet symphony.