The Cerebral Catalyst

The trombone was a fingerprint-smeared gold
but had a new case.
I liked to carry it around
pretending I had a machine gun.
I could have played THAT pretty convincingly
at home.

Practising was OK
and I persevered dutifully
without getting very far.
Worse was the polishing
in the back garden on a weekend
my soundless breath in the air
concentrating on keeping Brasso
off my gloves.

Somehow I ended up in the district school's wind band
which rehearsed at another school.
Once a week
I carried the instrument and my school bag
across town
to sit for an hour
parping bass notes every now and then
in my role as
3rd trombone.
1st trombone had a beautiful battered
matte silver one
and the beginnings of his first moustache.
He got to play more or less
all the notes
all the time.

I waited for my cue
and watched the girls
in the woodwind section.
Most of them were from a school
whose uniform seemed to require
white ankle socks
and slightly too-tight
sweaters.

Then my stepfather would pick me up
and ask if I was getting any better.
I always lied.

The day of the concert came
the hall packed with resigned fathers
and cautiously proud mothers
everywhere
steam rising from damp coats.

There was a lever on the end of the trombone I pressed
before I blew out the collected spit
otherwise it affected the clarity
of those 5 or 6 vital parps per minute.
With the valve open, of course
the circuit was broken
and no sound escaped.
You can doubtless imagine
what happened next
but allow me the amusement
of colouring it in for you.

My finger slipped
during a pianissimo passage
of The Young Person's Guide to the Orchestra
and the trombone finally roared
with a sound like the world beginning
or ending
like near-missing taxicabs in Manhattan
like avalanches falling on churches
and God venting his fury
like a storm on the sun
with me in the middle
bright red but somehow
stupidly exhilarated with all the
attention.

I can't remember
when I gave up the trombone
but I did.
Maybe if it had grabbed me by the balls
like the poem
I wouldn't be typing this now
but getting my sharp suit pressed
and my porkpie hat ready
for the weekend's gig
in my band
Ska for Life.

______________________________________
Miles J. Bell is 36 and lives in England. His father was a boxer; his mother was a Cocker Spaniel. He has had around 100 poems published across the small press. His latest chapbook, Let's Get Visible is available from Blackheath Books (Google 'em!).

posted 04.07.08.

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