To whom it may concern: Good morning, afternoon, or evening. It has come to my attention, via poetry foundation. org, that Wednesday, November 6 is National Saxophone Day, which commemorates the invention of the humble saxophone by Belgian inventor and musician Adolphe Sax in the 1840s.

In honor of that important day, here is yet another poem in the paper which is sure to vex my colleague in Hinesville, Mr. Donahue, who famously hates poems in the paper for whatever reason (I’m only messing with him; he’s a good egg, and as a young editor, I learn a lot from his example).

Anyways, here is a poem about the saxophone by American poet Billy Collins, retrieved from poetryfoundation.org.

(I wish I played an instrument. The only instrument I ever played as a kid was the infamous recorder in 4th grade music class. What instruments do y’all know how to play? Share in the comment section below, and don’t forget to like and subscribe to my channel--I mean, newspaper).

The Invention of the Saxophone Billy Collins 

It was Adolphe Sax, remember, 

not Saxo Grammaticus, who gets the ovation.

And by the time he had brought all the components 

together–the serpentine shape, the single reed, 

the fit of the fingers, the upward tilt of the golden bell– it was already 1842, and one gets the feeling 

that it was also very late at night. 

There is something nocturnal about the sound, something literally horny, 

as some may have noticed on that historic date 

when the first odd notes wobbled out of his studio into the small, darkened town, 

summoning the insomniacs (who were up waiting for the invention of jazz) to their windows, 

but leaving the sleepers undisturbed, evening deepening and warming the waters of their dreams.

For this is not the valved instrument of waking, 

more the smoky voice of longing and loss, 

the porpoise cry of the subconscious. No one would ever think of blowing reveille 

on a tenor without irony. 

The men would only lie in their metal bunks, fingers twined behind their heads, 

afloat on pools of memory and desire. 

And when the time has come to rouse the dead, 

you will not see Gabriel clipping an alto 

around his numinous neck. 

An angel playing the world’s last song 

on a glistening saxophone might be enough 

to lift them back into the light of earth, but really no further. 

Once resurrected, they would only lie down 

in the long cemetery grass 

or lean alone against a lugubrious yew 

and let the music do the ascending– 

curling snakes charmed from their baskets– while they wait for the shrill trumpet solo, 

that will blow them all to kingdom come. 

Andrea Gutierrez is the managing editor of the Bryan County News. If she could play any instrument, Gutierrez would pick the drums, and start an indie rock band in Athens.