The Trumpet Teacher’s Curse

by Kim Moore


The Trumpet Teacher’s Curse

A curse on the children who tap the mouthpiece

with the heel of their hand to make a popping sound,

who drop the trumpet on the floor then laugh,

a darker curse on those who fall with a trumpet

in their hands and selfishly save themselves,

a curse on the boy who dropped a pencil

on the bell of his trombone to see if it did

what I said it would, a curse on the girl

who stuffed a pompom down her cornet

and then said it was her invisible friend who did it,

a curse on the class teacher who sits at the back

of the room and does her paperwork,

a curse on the teacher who says ‘I’m rubbish at music’

in a loud enough voice for the whole class to hear,

a curse on the father who coated his daughter’s trumpet valves

with Vaseline because he thought it was the thing to do,

a curse on the boy who threw up in his baritone

as if it was his own personal bucket. 

Let them be plagued with the urge to practice

every day without improvement, let them play

in concerts each weekend which involve marching

and outdoors and coldness, let their family be forced

to give up their Saturdays listening to bad music             

in village halls or spend their Sundays at the bandstand,

them, one dog and the drunk who slept there the night before

taking up the one and only bench, Gods, let it rain. 

© Kim Moore