The Fireplace - Chapter 3

Half in a daze, half sceptical, Fern squeezed and wove his way through the maze of chair legs and waving hands to the Poets’ Section.

This section was composed of two rectangular tables. Spying an unoccupied corner seat, Fern stuffed himself into the small wooden chair, trying to be inconspicuous while the others on the tables wrote and discussed. The loud creak from the suffering piece of furniture denied his efforts.

As the people around him looked up, Fern gave them a small wave awkwardly. One of the poets stood up; this was a young man dressed in a black turtleneck that clung to his slender frame, matched with a pair of baggy, charcoal-grey trousers. Over his shoulders draped a long, flowing coat, while his scuffed leather boots added a stable energy to his whole person. Fern remarked inwardly that his attire seemed both deliberate and effortless as if he had stepped out of a Shakespearean play – his tousled hair, the single metal earring on his left ear, and the glint of a single silver ring on his left thumb gave him the air of a rich family’s son who dabbled frivolously in the arts.

But Fern immediately changed his mind as the young man spoke – his voice was that of a well-educated and well-thought man.

“Good morning, monsieur,” the youth said, then doubled back, “Sir. Welcome to the Poets’ Corner. Let me introduce us all.” Fern nodded mutely.

“I am Florence,” he said with a slight French accent, then moved down the aisle, calling everyone to attention meanwhile, “This here is Artemisia, Clover, Daphne, Alder and Sage. On the other table, we have the younger ones, Avalon and Amelia – just call them Ava and Amy.” Those who were called either waved or nodded in recognition. Alder and Artemisia looked similar enough for Fern to identify them as twins. Clover was a girl with straight black hair and brown eyes, and Daphne was blond and blue-eyed. Sage looked half-asleep, and he had a wilted and almost black flower crown in his wiry hair. They all looked around twenty-five, Sage perhaps around thirty.

“What’s your name, sir?” asked Daphne.

“Fern Edelweiss.”

She looked delighted and everyone else clapped. “Well then”, said Florence, “You don’t need another name.”

“Another name?”

“As you might notice, all of us here have plants’ names. Of course, it’s not a must, but it does make us poets look more…poetic and romantic,” Florence smiled. Around the tables, the others laughed in agreement.

Fern smiled – he was beginning to warm up to them, “Well, seems like I fit right in.”

Here, Amy and Ava came over. They were twin girls who were around fifteen, but they looked drastically different. Amy was fair-skinned and long-haired, while Ava had olive skin and wore her hair short, “Nice to meet you, Mr Fern,” they both said. Fern greeted them back.

“Well then,” Florence said, gesturing to the pile of cookies on the table, the paper, and the pens, “make yourself at home. We’re just sharing some ideas. Care to share anything you’ve written?”

Fern hesitated, his fingers instinctively brushing against the inner pocket of his coat where he kept a folded sheaf of poems. The thought of sharing his work in front of strangers—no matter how welcoming they seemed—made his stomach twist.

“Not really, sorry,” he said, reluctant to spoil their expectations but wanting to observe further.

“No, no, it’s fine,” Florence was quick to assure him, “Well, if you’d like to, you can join in our discussions. We’ve been talking about how to write about us.”

Fern nodded silently and was reassured to observe that beyond Florence and Daphne, none of them were very talkative.

Florence directed them to push the tables together, and the nine poets sat around the table as they started the day’s discussions.

“How to write about yourself,” Florence read out loud as he wrote it down. He looked up and gestured for Alder, who had, Fern later knew, proposed the topic.

Alder nodded in thanks, “I often write poems, as you all know, but I prefer to write about scenery. I prefer to write about stories, but I don’t know how to write about myself.” He twisted his hands, and Fern knew exactly how he felt. When he was young, he had never felt comfortable writing about himself, because there were so many things to write about that sounded way too personal.

The group fell into silence, and each thought about this problem as the quiet waves of murmuring from the other sections washed over them.

Clover brushed her long hair over her ears and said, “I think the main trouble is that there are some things you don’t want the readers to know because they’re too private but at the same time you want them to know because you want your struggles and your suffering to be shared or maybe even pitied.”

She grimaced, “Sorry, I was trying to find a better way to say it. I have the same problem and I’ve been berating myself for it, so it might’ve come out a bit sharp.”

Artemisia shook her head, “No, don’t apologise. You’re right. When I’m rational, I don’t want to share any of my emotions because they’re too private, but…” Here she paused, a little embarrassed, “Sometimes I feel like wanting someone to know because they’d feel bad about it for me if that makes sense.”

Some nodded, some stayed thoughtful; Sage slumbered on.

“Well,” Fern dared to give a piece of his opinion, albeit cautiously, “I have had the same problem, and I think the way to solve it is to look at it as somebody else’s emotions. It could be interpreted in the way that you need to ‘try somebody else’s shoes’, but also you could try to put these emotions onto another character in your poem’s story, or even multiple characters. This way it lessens the guilt or the self-recognition you might feel.”

His cheeks burning, Fern thought maybe he’d said too much and tucked himself more securely into his chair.

Alder smiled at him thankfully, and Florence said something to continue or to conclude that line of thought, but Fern didn’t pay much attention; he was busy trying to sort himself out.

He didn’t know what to think of this group at the moment. He had fitted in too easily; too quickly for his own comfort. He had accustomed himself to this environment already, however sceptical he had been at first. He was…He was happy, and he didn’t think that boded well.

He decided that it wasn’t much of a “third-rate” place. In their group (our group?), there was a Hamlet to lead, an Artemis to be thoughtful, a Jane Eyre to be sharp-witted, a Jo March to be friendly, a Daedalus to question and a Grantaire to listen. All of them seemed so happy sitting together, so he had taken his place in their circle as if an intruder. He dipped his head backwards till it met the wall, and then he rested in silence, thinking about what he could write.

But as the sun dimmed for a moment, just a moment, he thought that maybe he should visit more often.