Shakespeare Begins

The homework for my Thursday night class was to compose a sonnet, and Howard Schneider did that and more, writing a sonnet within a story about a certain school boy named William Shakespeare.

His First Sonnet

            As the bell tolled precisely at 7 am, Master Whitman strode into the drafty cold room at the King's New School in Stratford-upon-Avon and called the boisterous boys to order.  A quick glance confirmed all were present, seated properly and ready to begin.

            “Your assignment was to write a short prose essay regarding a worthy life goal,” Master Whitman said. “Mr. Campbell, we will start with you. Stand and read your composition,” he instructed. And so it went, each boy performing as instructed until four boys later when young William Shakespeare was call upon to read.

            Without hesitation he rose and began:

                        Yes sir, today I give my story here,

                        Not as prose, but instead, a sonnet muse.
                        And, as you'll see, for me it is more dear,
                        For tis a style in future I'll oft use.

                        My story is short and tells well this way.

                        It's about a young man who had no wife.
                        He vouched his friends he is willing to pay
                        Whatever it takes to bring love to his life.

                        What befell soon after brought the joy sought,

                        For twas the maid he hired, she was the one.
                        When he won her love, it was not bought,
                        And it lasted forever, never undone.

                        So what happened to him might also to me;

                        To someday find a wife, totally for free.

            There was a stunned silence for a moment upon William resuming his seat. Then, unable to control himself, Master Whitman erupted in anger.

            “That was not the assignment you were given to do William. Instead of serious prose you wasted time on a trivial poem. Even worse, a poem based on a degenerate Italian style concocted in the 13^th century. It is this kind of behavior, young Mr. Shakespeare, that convinces me that you will never amount to anything more than an apprentice in your father's glove-making shop, and any attempt at your further education would be a waste of time and money.”

            But young William barely noticed the raving and blatantly hostile leer of Master Whitman as he sat at his desk, his head bent down over his slate, intently scribbling out an idea for a play about an ancient Celtic king and his three daughters.

Howard Schneider 4.2.14