Ode To Saint Cecilia's Day Poem by Martin Ward

A trumpet sounds in a subway.

Crispian clarion call that would ring
exultant beneath cathedral dome.

Magnificent in execution: shrill
as a natural trumpet, ricocheting
from tagged subterranean walls.

Let no dissonance lurk mute here
in the shadows of this underworld.
Pray that no prey may take these notes,
nor blade cut short such rude reveille.

No wow-wow hat or extraneous ukulele
should fashion a break-dance across your path.

Musical gym-trained lip muscles
have brass-pumped this athlete's embouchure.

Stay notes: sustain, remain in clearest
concert pitch, strategically pitched
close to the closed down high-brow concert hall.

Sound, trumpet sound: ring through sirens
or call-tones that curse these wretched streets.

Let Purcell or Handel rap blast black mamba
dealer's ears, in this brassy hallowed place.

Should I walk by in meanest stride,
without a soul to call my own;
forgive a stingy mortal spirit
that sometimes misses a vital note.

Sounding brasses call me home
to another place in a different key;
warmer than breath which hits the cold
and dies in an instant upon the twilight chill.

Played on Saint Cecilia's Day,
this homeless tune,
left to fade upon these city streets.

I hear the echoes behind me now,
and trace the timbre on bitter, biting winds,
that fade towards a coda.