Bard's Shrine

   Language and art. Everyone can probably find some degree of fun in mixing the two, even if only for a moment. Meanwhile, the poet makes this his occupation — if not his life. Why a poet does what he does, I suppose, could remain a mystery to all but himself. Maybe some of them feel poetry provides them with a far deeper, more meaningful and beautiful language. Perhaps others treat it like a business of puzzles. I suspect some poets could suffer migraines at the mere sight of a student meticulously dissecting the rhythm and meter of their poems, or they could just up and die at the discovery of notes scrawled in among their precious verses. Then again, there are likely poets who silently hope that everyone in the world will scrutinize every word and syllable they’ve written to discover the precision of their poetic accomplishments. Who’s to say, when you pick up a book from the ‘poetry’ shelf, if you’ll be holding the literary equivalent of a Van Gough painting, or that of an astrophysicist’s journal entry; Whether it was written by paintbrush or caliper; If it will at all touch the heart, or stir the mind; Much less if it will become famous.

   It’s five o’ clock in the morning. Somewhere, a clock chimes, but before the metallic clanging manages to finish its message, there comes a creaking from a hidden stairwell. Suddenly, a door swings open and the young woman from upstairs bustles in; Hair in a messy ponytail; Full mug of tea in hand. The early morning sunlight slants through slim cracks in the curtains. There, the dust glistens almost beautifully — even in the eyes of the girl who has to come fight it off with a feather duster every morning. She clicks on a few warm lights. Only in recognition of what little effect this has on the dark shop can one tell just how much the place relies on sunlight. She then sets down her mug on the front counter, next to the cash register, and walks to a little shelf that’s wedged back in some little corner. A button clicks, a disc whirs, then ‘Shostakovich’s Dance 1’ blares through the shop. In a moment, the woman has armed herself with a duster, and in the next she’s set to work. Walls and walls; Stacks upon stacks of books stand, nearly floor to ceiling, all forming a labyrinth of literature through which the dusting woman skips about her work to the sound of the blaring music. Though, it’s debatable whether there’s more dusting or dancing happening, which is — naturally — the reason the curtains remain drawn until opening time.

 . . . 

   Matthew Bates was readying for a special dinner. He’d been told by a friend that ‘Everybody who’s anybody would be attending.’ This meant he’d need to dress his very best, which meant he’d had to buy new clothes. Standing in front of the mirror, he buttoned up his coat. Turning slightly from side to side, he decided he would just go. Matthew was in no way fashionable, so no matter how many brain cells he engaged in the contemplation of how he looked, he still had no real idea of whether or not he’d be deemed ‘acceptable’ at this event. Finally, with a final thought of the minimal price he’d paid for the suit, he smiled and departed.  

   The coach nearly left him — even though it belonged to his friend. “Good grief, man! By all means, don’t let me rush you.” The speaker was a short, somewhat stocky character, with black hair greased down to skull-hugging thinness. “It’s not as if my future happiness is riding on this evening going well, or that I expect you to spare a thought for that. Of course, there’s also no reason for me to believe you’d go a step out of your way to help.” Matthew jumped in and settled down into his seat, without a word of reply. His friend watched, frazzled, waiting for an answer. Matthew didn’t even glance at him for as long as he deemed he could get away without an eruption, — which was about three seconds — then he briskly, but casually, turned and asked, “All set, Fredrick?” The coach wheeled away, leaving in its wake, an echoing trail of grumbles. 

. . .

   The bookshop was a nice, old place. Twenty-three-year-old Beatrice had inherited it from her grandfather, who’d inherited it from his father, who’d inherited it from his, who’d built it himself. For the entirety of that time, it had been — and remained — The Roderick Bookshop. It had been built on a street called ‘Roderick’. The road’s name had since changed, but not the shop’s. Beatrice would have given it a more creative name if she had been the one to build it, but her very prosaic and practical great-great-grandfather was the one who’d had that honor, and — one-hundred-twenty years later — none of it’s new owners had disliked the name enough to change that. 

   A little bell jingled at the front door. Looking up from an account book, Beatrice saw an elderly gentleman walk in smiling. “Heeyyy!” Beatrice hollered. Jumping up from her stool, she rushed around the counter and gave the man a big hug. 

   “How have you been, Sir Chuck? It’s been a while!” 

The man was tall and his hair was white and thinning, but he stood straight, and smiled brightly.   

   “Hello, Miss B!” 

‘Sir Chuck’ and ‘Miss B’ had become good friends back when she was eighteen and had just inherited ‘the Roderick.’ Charles Oliver had been a regular customer back when Beatrice’s grandfather still ran the place, and after the place changed hands, the two became good friends.  

   After some time off shopping, Sir Chuck came back to the front desk with two little books in hand. Setting them down on the counter, he asked, “What do ya reckon? Should I try this here book of Yeats, or these soldier boys?” 

Beatrice smiled. 

   “Well, I would say the soldiers.”

   “Is that right?”

   “Yes, sir. I’ve read a bit of both, but I prefer the war one.”

   “Alright, then. I guess I’ll give it a try.”

As she rang up the little collection of WWI poems, Chuck asked, 

   “So what do you like about it? I read the first poem, but the anonymous young buck that wrote it had a mouth foul as my own, and it wasn’t at all artful. It reminded me of my time in the military, but that wasn’t poetic.” 

  “It got me thinking more. Some of them are more artful than others, but they all got my heart and mind working. I’d start imagining what it must have been like to be in situations so physically, emotionally, and psychologically straining that I couldn’t help but sit down to write a poem, then forget I was trying to be poetic.” 

The man chuckled. Beatrice did too. “Of course there are a plethora of other possible scenarios I consider as well,” she added, “Some of which just include plain sass. Was it the first one telling his sergeant-major to stick a pass up his…”

 . . .

   Matthew stood straight as a soldier at attention. Finely dressed ladies and gentlemen talked and laughed, the overall sound and atmosphere of which was unique to the dictates of their intricate rules of etiquette, and the echo of the grand hall. To Matthew, it all sounded real and fake at the same time. 

   “Are you ready?” Fredrick asked with a slight bit of sweat beading up on his temples.

   “Umm. Not necessarily. Are you sure about this?”

 Matthew was the more composed of the two, but he still wasn’t all that excited about Fredrick’s plan. 

   “Y— es.”

Matthew turned to his friend in alarm. 

   “What? That didn’t sound at all convincing. Could you just not do it, if you aren’t even sure you want to —”

An elegant woman spotted them and, smiling, started their way.

   “Just give it here!” Fredrick urged. Matthew passed him a folded piece of paper. 

   “I’ll pay you for this if it works,” Fredrick whispered.

   “Now if it’s not, you’ll—” Matthew began rapidly, but the lady arrived, and his friend cut him off with a loud greeting, “Margaret! You look stunning…” 

Matthew smiled uncomfortably, mentally finishing his sentence “be a man and not blame me.”

. . .

   Beatrice sat drawing in a little sketchbook and sipping sweet tea from a styrofoam cup. She’d flipped the closed sign over for her lunch break, but she’d since finished eating and her sketch wasn’t working out, so she opened the place back up, and went to look for books in need of repair. With so many ancient ones around, it wasn’t hard to find them. Scanning the shelves, she spotted a little, old hardcover with the author’s name nearly gone from the spine. Squinting, Beatrice pulled it off the shelf and studied the cover. It was blue, but very faded. Flipping it open to the title page, she saw that all the words were written by hand, the first page reading, The Poetical Works of Matthew Bates. “Hm! Fascinating.”

   Taking the book to the little back room that she used as a repair studio, Beatrice set the book down and put on a pair of gloves. To get a better idea of what she’d found, she began reading. “Dedicated to my dear friend the doubter. Page one. The sonnet that started it all…”

. . .

   “That was, truly, the most embarrassing experience of my life, Bates!” 

Matthew felt kind of bad for his friend, but he was glad to be getting in the coach to leave.   

   “‘Though years will wear my sweet lady decrepit, My love for her cannot grow insipid?’ What was that?! I couldn’t even finish the last line! And I seriously regret how much of the thirteenth I blurted out in my misplaced sense of confidence.” 

   “Now, now! The last two lines of a sonnet are supposed to be unexpected and you were the one who didn’t want to read it first.”

   “Well, you could have, at least, kept them romantic!”

   “I’m sorry. I thought they were! You’re sure Margaret didn’t? I think she just might have if you’d finished it.”

   “Uggh! I have no idea why in the world I thought you could do this!”

Matthew jumped at the opportunity.

   “Precisely! You can discuss this once you’ve figured out why you requested it in the first place. Let’s go, shall we?” Matthew clicked at the horses. “Hyah, boys! Move along, now.”

. . .

    Beatrice laughed, then heard a call from the shop, “What ya laughin’ at?” Beatrice closed the book and stepped out of the repair studio. “Oh hey, Windy! I just found some old poet’s book. He’s one I’ve never heard of before and I’m trying to decide if he’s intentionally funny, or unintentionally hilarious.”

   “Ah, I see! Do you have any new recommendations for the club? The ladies said they want somethin’ either — let me see…”

Pulling out a sticky note, she read, “Wonderfully romantic or so funny they’ll bust a gut.” 

   “Hm. Well —”

   “Oh yeah. Sorry,” Windy interrupted, “Grace Anne left a footnote requesting you not even shelve any of the raunchy books people bring in.”

   “Well, I don’t read too much in the way of romance, but I believe I found James Herriot pretty funny. It’s been a while, though.”

Windy stared at her doubtfully.

   “Anything else? I thought maybe some kind of satire? You know the ladies.”

   “Ha! I do. There’s Swift’s ‘Modest Proposal’ if they want satire. I might just suggest this Mr. Bates, though, if only there were more copies.”

At this, the rather round Windy seemed to ponder.

   “Is it really funny? I mean, the ladies sent me with fairly specific instructions, and if you think it’ll give ‘em all hernias, then I might just try to make some copies, myself, if that’s alright.” 

. . .

   His sonnet had not sparked holy matrimony for his friend, but Matthew Bates’d had more fun with Fredrick’s commission than he’d expected. Of course, his bachelor friend had some adamant protests about Bates’ next chosen course of action. Nevertheless, Matthew took up a pen, and developed a serious poetry complex. Undeterred by his friend’s arguments and complaints, Bates charged onward with his new-found quest for the creation of poetic masterpieces. 

   Matthew had always been someone whom others described as ‘a bit eccentric,’ but Fredrick could hardly keep up with Matthew ‘The Bard’ Bates. In the past, whenever Fredrick took his friend anywhere classy, he’d always had to request that he not blurt out imitations of others’ laughs, — no matter how they struck him — but now he found himself stopping Matthew from carrying a little notebook around wherever he went, and writing down ‘fancy’ words the guests would say.  

   “I wonder if I’ll ever get published!”

Matthew had been writing for several years, but had only one small collection to show for it. He’d thrown out a lot of his poems due to them failing personal standards, and some for receiving too much negative feedback from others. However, he kept his favorites no matter what. Looking at the little blue book in his hands, he thought the remaining sum was still minimal. 

   “You know,” mused Fredrick, “I would suggest you try to get a wife. That’s likely your best chance of getting a reader as well.”

   “Ha. Ha. I’m going to show it to one more publisher, then I’m giving it to your kids.”  

   “Hey, you’re not pawning that off on me.”

   “What? You know it’s dedicated to you? If nothing else, your kids will have a book dedicated to their very own , very dear father.”

Fredrick rolled his eyes, and Matthew laughed. 

. . .

   It was nearing closing time at ‘the Roderick,’ and the place was void of all customers. Beatrice closed the novel she had been reading, and glanced around the empty room. Looking at her watch, she saw it was eight o’ clock. Up she gets from the front desk. ‘Vocalise’ plays softly on the stereo. She feels like singing while she works — now that everyone is gone — so the disc is respectfully ejected at the close of the piece, and Stevie Wonder takes over. Beatrice hefts cardboard boxes full of books, singing, “Don’t you worry…,’ and sorting in new halls and corners to her labyrinth. She likes that the shop is so old because it means that even she can find new things in it. One-hundred-twenty years is a very long time to collect, after all, and that was proven true, once again, at the finding of Matthew Bates. Windy had sat down in the back with her, for a couple hours, stapling papers into little booklets, and copying poems down in them for the bookclub ladies. The repair studio was still filled with little, mostly finished, booklets. Beatrice wondered if Matthew Bates — whoever he was — could’ve guessed where his poetry would windup. One song ends and ‘Signed, Sealed, Delivered’ begins. Beatrice smiles. She loves her job.