I didn’t mean to be in Gryffindor.
In the brave house.
The confrontational house.
The house that gave us Dumbledore!
Maybe I’ll amount to something,
Since I’m in Gryffindor.
I need to be more like my dad.
We went to visit him and mum before I came here
Since we were in London and we can never be sure
They’ve read my letters.
I told them the news –
I’m magic enough to come to Hogwarts!
I wonder if they’ll read the letter
I wrote them today.
“I’m in Gryffindor!” I said.
“The brave house.”
Delicately I dipped my heart
In a vat of molten stone
It burned and twitched
But then held still
As its beat began to slow.
From out the fleshly doors do flow
Salty crystals to the world below.
All’s not well in a life so real
While God on high sits and I do feel.
A father’s missed by his voice so kind,
His arms are warm, and so I pine
I cannot but weep the whole night through
When I am, my father, away from you.
I wrote a poem upon a map
And gave it to be scattered
To a springtime wind
That pinched my skin
And to these plains had wandered.
The rocks caught my poem long
In hands rough and firm
They turned it once and shuffled it twice
Then back to a map it went
It waited there beneath my stare
Again to be torn and rent.
Minor notes played in tune,
Scintillating, incandescent blue,
Not even bothering to fade away until
Your minor cacophony is written,
And you, played soft and sweet.
A little universal orchestra of minor strains.
Without obtrusion or delay
The ʼverse in pieces little lay
But while you wander and implore
That poem still says nevermore.
Inside your eyes
Makes it sticky
But no wine.
I loved him first
On slips of paper
And pages of journals
In whispers in the chapel
During the cloudy winter days
That I dreaded so.