Van Dudler Poem by AISWARYA T ANISH

On hands their praise, of sounds that made
Tantrums thrown upon the keyboard, the maid
Rush to her master, little, a toddler
Twisting the house of Van Dudler on his little finger

Outside the windows, behind curtains
Made of silk; with an innocent pretence
Stood the maid's son from her dead husband
A darling little creature, they called him Donovan

His yellow curls fell around his ears as they perched
And listened to the sounds filtering as he lurched
Deep down, and asked his butterflies to rest,
Slowly he inched his way to put his skills to test

His fingers ran like a river down the lane
A sound so melodic, the sweet of sugar cane
The maid's son was poor but his music was not
As fingers touched ivory in not a brighter note

Van Dudler mused at the sound from his house
The toddler had dreamed, so had his spouse
The maid was alarmed that her son was the one
Off she went, and there he was shunned

A scar left the face where the hand fell to seize
The art of his music from her master's ancient piece,
His face was so flushed but hers even more,
Maid Martha was red as she profusely swore.

'Ay, why would you stop little boy, play on'
Said van Dudler, and he wasn't alone
The whole house was down to lend their ears
For a music played beyond a boy's tender years

Maid Martha's son played his tune of old blue
And his audience amazed, their ears stick like glue
At the notes that soothed the troublesome toddler
And filled the house of good old Van Dudler

15th February 2013