Paul Tortelier In Recital. Poem by Margery Rehman

He had magic in his hands
For, as he played,
He transported us to heights
Way above the stars.

A slim man, almost gaunt,
Ascetically thin,
Mouth wide and mobile,
Nose aquiline,
Bright, piercing eyes
With dancing brows
In a long, sharp Gallic face
Below a bush of graying hair.

His hands---
Long, bony, knobbly-knuckled,
Huge, splayed thumbs, misshapen things,
Finger tips worn down, calloused
From constant pressure on the strings.

On stage he would come
Smiling expectantly around,
Acknowledge us, sit down,
Adjust his cello.
Be still; a slight frown
Of concentration
Like a saint in meditation
Then start to play-

-To play the Bach Suites.
Rich-textured pattern of notes unfolding
Austerely, yet hinting of abandon,
Harmony undulating, light with dark contrasting.
From Praeludium to Gigue through Sarabande
And other ancient, courtly dance; weaving
An elegant tapestry of gracious age gone by,
Freeing our machine-bound, constricted souls,
Transporting us way, way above the stars
With the magic in his hands.