“The Flute of All Your Sorrows” by Karsten Piper

Do you remember as a child
considering the sounds—
how many flutes would overwhelm
a trumpet? Could drown
the bash of a kettledrum?

But you have grown,
alone, and dangling now
from your fingertips
the single flute of all your sorrows
having played it into exhaustion.

As wind skeins off the grassland,
every strand catches the cold
lip-plate and spins
through the silver barrel
in wisps so fine

they have no timbre, tones
too slight to stir dust.
And in the wind,
each thread returns to cross
the flute again, note upon note

until winter-broken grasses
begin to crash against old leaves,
and for the first time
a young bird opens the dark
bell of its throat.

Karsten Piper
from Ruminate #10

Commentary: As a flutist and a bird-watcher, I love this poem. The flute does a have small voice in the overall orchestra, but it can (along with its sister, the piccolo), reach into the highest soprano ranges of sound. It can be piercing. It can be melodically sweet. When a musician plays the flute in its low voice, in the deeper octaves of its range, the audience can barely hear the instrument unless it is singing out a solo. This is such a clear metaphor for the soul, which longs to be heard in silence, no matter how softly she speaks.

Advertisement