Why I Play Trumpet Poem by Tom Goff

Because if there is climax in this life,
such as impels symphonic argument,
it burgeons by virtue of brass instruments
─ the orchestra’s boldest beings, chief lawscoffs─

whilst quietist souls desire you kindly stifle
that giggle, stay inside your leaky tent,
desist from twiddling those itching thumbs you’ve bent,
make drunken fifes keep off our Duncan Fyfe.

Ephemerals of the trumpet sort? Lī ved gnat-
short, embouchures spent in facefuls of cheek pain
and lip-by-mouthpiece bruise; and yet the gain

to Mahler, Bruckner. That danger heat, report
of arms, clangor of bells. Cloudbolt, storm-glow,
last summons chord that glimmers us where we go.