Something a bit new: poetry. And something
new for me too as this is the first fanfic I’ve posted. Most of the poems
centre on the events of Order of the Pheonix and the locked door at the
books centre, the door which hides the secret to J.Ks great books.
Obviously JK owns all characters, events and things relating to the Harry
Potter book. The title to ‘Letter to Hermione’ is stolen from a David Bowie
song, though the actual content has nothing to do with it.
The Three Year Long Summer
Three years is it?
Endless ages in front of the hour glass,
watching a website’s countdown in
days, hours, minutes and seconds to the
of the fifth book. We waited in darkness,
reading small reports in the newspapers
about the ghost of celebrity and your
still petrified under that huge, unbending
you left us with on the platform three
And still we wait, sensing
The phoenix flame that will breathe fire
into our meagre existence.
Looking for J.K.
I have read every word of your books,
enchanted figures flying out of the page at
Characters that melt into each other
like some strange potion you might write
Yet I remain blinded by camera lenses
and the false glamour of fame,
your name in newsprint in Time Magazine.
I do not really know you.
I can only imagine, probably wrongly,
your life as a single mother in dark and
run-down cafes writing out your creation,
hoarding wages for a leap to freedom,
visited only by the geniuses who creep
through the pages of those books.
Letter to Hermione
For a long time I thought I knew you.
I looked at you and saw a dusty old
which the stammering pupil recites cover to
Nothing new there. Nothing to strike a
The immaculate handwriting, mountains of
parchment, a prefect’s badge, a scowl,
that frustrating blindness to others around
I saw that. But what else lurked, somewhere
beneath the layers of skin. I felt nothing,
missed the curious tendency that
makes everyone fall in love with you.
I was blind to your individual ghost,
that moment when all your little
transfigured, and one memory merges with
like an eel swallowed in a basket of eels.
Little stars on your personal astrologer’s
I look at you and see spew, periwinkle-blue
silk, a troll in a toilet
one distant Halloween, in a red haze you
slapping Draco Malfoy,
Rita Skeeter trapped in a jar, a good-luck
kiss, that grouchy Bulgarian git,
the young girl petrified on a hospital bed,
a time turner,
the unusual musk of perfume.
The Only Wizard He Ever Feared
So its true you are only human,
With human fears and dreams.
Even, in the end, a human tear
As you watch a fifteen-year old boy
See his only family die again.
I imagine your voice falters
Like an out-of-tune musical instrument
As you pile on your human form
The shadow of an inhuman burden,
Blaming yourself for a man’s death.
At last she reveals to us your frailty,
The inner secret that must have
Ripped you open for nearly five years.
And yet the aura you cast, like a strange
Around you only deepens. Is your whimsical
Humour a mere deflection, an answer
To your fate as secret keeper to a thousand
What more is hidden from us, or perhaps
even from you?
Do you hold a key that will open the door
To the mystery we are all immersed in?
Poem for Remus Lupin
An old man in a thread-bare waistcoat,
utterly invisible in the bustling crowd
of King’s Cross Station with its weird
of businessmen, young families and owls.
You always were on the edge,
at home with your various anonymities.
Who would have known, or even guessed,
your fabulous history: the way death,
like the moon, had haunted your step since
watching Sirius fall through the veil a week
Standing a little away from the others,
quiet and polite as usual.
Like a ghost you can see straight through.
Like a man with a hole in himself.
For James Potter
Your son’s face, which was once your own,
has escaped from the ghost of
his dead father. And that is as it should
Because his knight in shining armour was merely
an arrogant fool with a teenage obsession
for hairstyles. The shadow of his
as bright as the green jewels of his
which have now become his eyes,
is fled. Melted into dust. And what is
An empty cloud of testosterone
and a bad memory.
Or is it?
It took me a long time to see past your
clown’s mask, your puppet strings, your
But I still cling to the image we all
the echo of your last sacrifice, a final plea:
“Lily, it’s him! Take Harry. I’ll hold
There’s a carnival in the street,
pounding in my eardrums like a seismic
A celebration for the new dawn.
There are shadows moving in the darkness.
The outlaw hides in the corners fearing for
Overhead the flying motorcyclist delivers
his sacred cargo.
And everything seems like something else,
And this is where you begin, taken
from the burning house in the arms of a
Advice for Harry Potter
Everybody thinks they own you.
They have grown to know you so well, they
you need them. Do not correct your critics.
Any attempt to change from their fossilised
of you will cause pain. They see an innocent,
bespectacled, eleven-year-old amazed at his
They put your body in formalin.
Be someone else and they will realise you
don’t need them.
They will become confused and may even
you have betrayed them. And when,
having watched your godfather die,
you stand helpless in Dumbledore’s office
flinging objects into eternity,
and he not doing a thing,
knowing there is nothing to say,
they will merely lie back in their armchair
and grumble that they don’t like your
Order of the Phoenix
What hidden magic resides in the ink on the
I imagine the ingredients.
“Take three frogs legs, a newt,
essence of thestral,
one nosebleed nougat,
a teaspoon of emotion,
a single feather from the tail of a
Mix them all together”
A thousand half forgotten scenes.
Boy in a hospital ward collecting sweet
a stupid old idiot who “didn’t learn
joined up writing for nothing, you know?”
Sirius Black, a dying man.
When the last word has been said,
The last spell cast, what sound fills the
This book draws us close to the veil,
Shows death in a bone-white, thestral-like
The world falls apart again.
And yet I still believe in Loony Luna’s
the Weasley Liberation Front and the
fire of the phoenix flame.