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Unspooling…

for Pascal Nadon
by Kevin T. McEneaney
Tue Dec 19th, 2017

When a superior flutist performs,

I feel the upper regions of my brain

to be refreshed like standing in stunned awe

before rolling white-thunder’s majestic roar

of a secluded, pristine waterfall.

 

The flute unspools a cool ribbon of sound.

It wipes lines from the worried forehead;

it allows one to forget the body

and all the baggage of its sad defects.

The flute levitates all ten toes to speak.

 

Whether transverse or fipple recorder,

the bone flute is fifty-thousand years old;

the first sophisticated instrument,

it was the cerebral glory of Greece,

dazzling court jewel of French Enlightenment.

 

The flautist who put my breath on pause was

Jean-Pierre Rampal at Carnegie Hall,

giant of circular breathing technique,

who could make the brain tremble in delight.

The trilling flute is a soothing healer.

 

The flute conjures bright bucolic landscape

of hills, rocks, dim caves, streams, and purling rills.

Flute is autochthonous, archetypal,

plaything of a three-year-old child’s birthday.

The healing flute is the child of wonder.