 The Clarinet BBoard
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Author: Mary Jo
Date: 2009-12-05 21:45
Author: Mary Jo
Playing Music or Something Close to It
--a poem by Mary Jo
It was an affront that made me do it,
indignation and resolve to learn how to play “Taps”
for all those old soldiers laid to rest with that
last tribute wafting artificially from a
tape deck out on the last hill ever taken.
So me and an EBay trumpet signed on with
Mr. Smith, an old Grade School Music Leader, with a
certificate of appreciation on his practice room wall,
from the Offutt Honor Guard, thanking him for his
work as the Strategic Air Command bugler.
Thus Mr. Smith tried his educator and professor best
to mold a proficient trumpet player out of a woman
who used to play a mild clarinet.
Every week I did practice, my husband can attest,
loud blaring honks from that weapon requiring
ear protection from my mostly patient husband and
eight nervous house pets.
I learned pretty good all the notes in the staff,
how easy and kind of beautiful my tone, I think.
The music stand and me barely fit in the bedroom
walk-in closet, where I practiced and practiced
until even old clothes and shoes and dirty linens in
the hamper started to protest or maybe it was just
they didn’t like the jazz I tried to play.
Once in a great while, there would be a knock at the door,
interrupting me playing “Misty” for the third time.
I’d open the door grudgingly, a little TO’d
in my musical daydream loaded with glitz,
playing at the Copa Cabana while movie stars danced.
Larry, my husband, true to his name,
was like a Golden Retriever in temperament–
meaning he put up with everything it seemed,
though I never attempted pulling his ears--
stood before me, looking for all the world
like a saint about to be fed to the lions.
He’d respectfully and quietly ask me to
consider ending practice for the day.
I’d frown like a virtuoso and grumpily comply,
gravely offended despite Larry’s excuse:
The neighbors are complaining.
A crowd is picketing outside the house,
threatening to ride you out of the
subdivision on a rail, or if you prefer,
a music stand held horizontal.
All the pets, cute squirrels and robins
flee the neighborhood in terror at
the first note you blow out. Clouds form
in the heavens, the sky crackles and
seems dangerously close to being split
when you raise the horn to your lips.
Harumph, I say, Harumph,
and fold up all my gear for the day.
Do this enough and eventually a musician thinks
about playing a mellower instrument.
It’s not quite a clarinet, I thought, but
I’ve always wanted to play the saxophone.
It’s brass like the trumpet, only bigger and robust,
I can honk, I can purr on that shiny instrument,
loud, but not quite as loud as Gabriel’s trumpet.
It’s a go, I say!
Now its one, make that two instruments past
that dusty, old trumpet on the closet shelf.
Though I’m still making concessions to
noise standards in the neighborhood
and marital harmony along the way,
I still love to toot and
my husband still loves me.
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Author: Dan Shusta
Date: 2009-12-05 23:38
Mary Jo:
Just a short note to let you know that I enjoyed your poem very much.
I laughed at several points along the way and was quite surprised to feel water welling up in my eyes as I read the last stanza.
IMO, real dreams never die. They lay awaiting for the right moment to come forth again.
Perhaps it's time to get that old trumpet down off of the closet shelf, dust it off, and re-experience the joy of "playing music" or "something close to it".
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Author: Brenda ★2017
Date: 2009-12-07 12:07
Yes, playing in the furthest bedroom from the rest of the house, being wrested out of a musical fairy land and summoned to finally give it up for the night (grumble, grumble - it's 11:30 already??) - that brings back memories. At least I didn't play piano in the middle of the living room.
Once we move to our house in Central America where there are no soundproof walls or an abundance of padded furniture and carpeting, the neighbors will have to be the ones to phone and insist that I finally give it a rest and go to bed!! We'll have to think about finding soundproof ceiling tiles somewhere to make the smallest room into a practice room, either that or take a few boxes of them from here. (Are there soundproof tiles that are resistant to atmospheric humidity and mould?)
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