"hermione" poems
The comic convention
has cardboard cutouts of
all of the main characters of
Harry Potter.
Harry,
Ron,
Hermione,
etc.
All motionless in a river of people,
glossy but worn down,
bathed in cold white halogen.
And one by one,
the cosplayers—
the Harrys
Rons
Hermiones,
etc.
Have their pictures taken
with the cutouts,
one cardboard cutout cut out
and replaced with a real human being.
Being human, we
crave companionship,
fear solitude,
crave solitude,
fear companionship.
We try to avoid becoming cardboard
cutouts of ourselves, but sometimes
a retreat into inanimacy
is what the animus needs.
The cosplayers continue to shuffle forward in line
each waiting to pose for a selfie. Each
politely smiling at the living Harry Potter characters around them,
but not striking up a conversation.
Aug 3, 2014
Aug 3, 2014 at 8:35 PM UTC
Hermione taught me,
Never dumb down.
Prim whispered,
It's Okay to fall down.
Ginny smiled,
Don't stop loving, He'll come around.
Katniss screamed,
Seize the fire.
The doctor whispered,
Rose Tyler-
Haymitch scorned,
The people need to be raised!
Snape replied,
Always.
Okay, so we conflict.
Our thoughts fight.
But whichever fandom we follow,
As a fangirl, we unite.
Dec 14, 2014
Dec 14, 2014 at 9:50 AM UTC
Dear Ronald Bilius Weasley
No matter what others say
I will always be your fan
You are such a marvellous character
Not perhaps, a perfect one
But a character with flaws
So real, and so beautiful
That we can totally relate to it
In your first year at Hogwarts
You played a game of chess
In such a magnificent manner
That even the Russians of the Muggle world
Could not have done any better
In your second year at Hogwarts
You faced your greatest fears
With a courage and nerve
That Godric Gryffindor would have been proud of
For the sake of your best mates
In your third year at Hogwarts
You almost ruined a friendship
For the sake of a rat and a broomstick
But you made amends for it
By standing up to a notorious murderer
That too with a broken leg
Again, for the sake of your best mate
In your fourth year at Hogwarts
Again, there was a misunderstanding
That threatened to derail a strong friendship
But you were there for Harry
When it truly mattered
There was also some ugly ****** jealousy
As your teenage hormones took centrestage
But at least you got an inkling
That you and Hermione
Were made for each other
In your fifth year at Hogwarts
There was a lot you had to put up with
The constant bullying of the Slytherins
Especially during Quidditch matches
The temper tantrums of your best friend
And finally, the evil Dolores Jane Umbridge
Initially, due to your nerves and insecurities
Your Quidditch performances went from bad to worse
But then, you finally showed us
The stuff you were made of
Saving goals left, right and centre
And to cap it all
You bravely fought a dozen Death Eaters
Yet again, for the sake of your best friend
Finally, we come to the war
Due to your never-ending insecurities
And anxiety for your family
Worsened by a dreadful locket
That contained a part of Voldemort's soul
You briefly deserted your best mates
But returned when it mattered the most
Even saving Harry's life in the process
And then, as you destroyed that darned locket
You finally conquered your fears
And transitioned successfully to manhood
Finally, during the Battle of Hogwarts
You showed us your sensitive side
A side that we had never seen before
As you displayed your concern for the house-elves
Precipitating your first kiss with Hermione
Later on, you lost your dear brother
But continued to soldier on bravely
Even standing up to Voldemort himself
Hence, dear Ronald Bilius Weasley
No matter what others say
I will always be your fan
Aug 9, 2020
Aug 9, 2020 at 9:28 AM UTC
Harry Potter marathons
Keeps my mind going strong
Feeds my imagination
Hogwarts is my destination
Fun times can be found
Magical abilities will abound
Harry has a path to follow
Leading up to Deathly Hallows
Ron and Hermione his best friends
Stick with him to the bitter end
Dumbledore a blessing to behold
Guides Harry as his life unfolds
Snape was such a scoundrel
Turns out he's quite wonderful
In the end you will see
There's nothing better than family
Jan 9, 2014
Jan 9, 2014 at 4:14 PM UTC
"That quiche was delicious and - Harry Potter!"
Oh no, not him again, what a bother.
"What time should I pick you up to take you to - Harry Potter!"
Seriously? I suppose we'll pretend like he already got her.
"Did you finish chemistry and start your - Harry Potter!"
Oh, i wish we could just stop talking about that rotter.
"Do you mind getting the laundry for - Harry Potter!"
Umm, you know the clothes smell, we really otter.
This boy is worse than Peter Pan
He lives in my house and rides in my van!
My girls all adore him and his glasses
And the more he talks, the more he attracts the masses.
Whoever is this Dumbledore?
I really don't want to hear anymore.
Snape just looks like he's evil
All I know is he's causing upheaval.
Ron, that poor redhead
And Hermione that bossy big head.
Edward somehow got mixed in
And i hear he died in the end.
But I couldn't care less, please go away!
I will get rid of them all one day.
I know what must happen when I hear Potter,
I must become a pest control plotter!
Dec 4, 2012
Dec 4, 2012 at 12:39 PM UTC
I came to study the magical arts
But these troublesome three students
Hermione, Ron and harry,
Last semester those three students
Killed our defence against the dark arts teacher
I guess if he didn't stand against three kids,
How would he survive against the real dark arts,
Now this semester they're up to their shenanigans again
I wish I could just Wingardium Leviosa them off a cliff
But if I do that
Or even if I fail my grade this semester
My parents will probably Avada Kedavra me.
May 20, 2016
May 20, 2016 at 10:38 PM UTC
When I was seven, my best friend and I used to dress up and have tea parties. We wore the torn, hand-me-down dresses from my cousins like they were gowns straight out of a princess’s wardrobe, and we were beautiful. We would prance around my room with purple plastic teacups, and there was no better place to dine than the blue **** carpet from Goodwill.
When I was seven I wanted to be a dancer. Not just a ballerina, no. I wanted to do everything. I watched with rapt attention as my cousin’s modern class tumbled to the floor of the stage, and as I stared at their neon colored tank tops and black jazz pants, it seemed that my world made sense. It seemed that as long as I was there on stage, dancing with the same skill and emotion and passion, I would be beautiful.
For my eighth birthday, my friend gave me the sixth Harry Potter book. My favorite character was Hermione. At recess, we would tie the sleeves of our red uniform sweaters around our necks and run around the blacktop pretending to play Quidditch. I thought Harry was smart and cunning and funny, but Hermione. Hermione was full of enthusiasm and rules and always made friends even if they were only in her head. She was top of her class with hair that everyone noticed and her brain was bigger than her group of friends at lunch and that was okay because she was like me. I never thought Hermione was beautiful. She didn’t need to be. Her bushy hair was full of intelligence and her buck teeth were strong enough to bite off the tongues of her oppressors and her dull, brown eyes weren’t dull at all because even the Whomping Willow began as a patch of dirt.
Hermione wasn’t beautiful like a garden. Her fiery eyes were dancing with flames that could wipe out an entire forest without even breaking a sweat. I have never wanted to be beautiful like a garden or the sunlight on the Fourth of July. As I tumble onstage in a blue dress with a tear in the front, my feet are ***** and my palms are sweaty and not one girl has brushed her hair. Footsteps pound the floor like a mighty pride of lions and hearts race as the bass drops and I am not a garden. Don’t you dare call me beautiful.
May 14, 2014
May 14, 2014 at 5:57 PM UTC
-something real. Something strong and sturdy, believable. I want to write words that are heavy with lightness and dark with their brightness, to draw on a page a life so unbelievably real, so inconceivably mine
in creation
I want to write
-not just love. Not a ***** with a couple of drink-mangled bugs. I want to write about that feeling of blood churning and the warmth of emotion not physical feeling, to put into words the unwordable joy of being in the presence of
not just anyone
Anyone. Like the not-platonic-non-romantic affection that Rudy would not fail to hint at, that so-wanted kiss that Liesel gave, it wasn't so much the action as the meaning behind it. Like that itch on Death's ear when Liesel he came near, not to take her yet, but to steal her story, to live through it. To feel the words dance in his void, non-niceness, the infinite meanings and the power of phonic combinations.
They allow even Death to live.
I want to write like Zusak, like Rowling, like me.
I want to write
-the philosophies. The thoughts and wishes and wonders of a minority. I want to write about those opinions of those whose voices are too small and their souls beautifully lit up but unseen, their ideologies so unmistakably right but also naive and innocent, to stage their feelings from transition to transition
their words to the wise
I want to write
-characters so flawed. Each with an inner splendor most radiant, but with their fields of starless black and heads that wander from this to that. I want to write lives and people so different, with not-so-good lives and not-so-normal features. People who, though lacking thereof, cliche the right things and believe
in the wrong
The wrong. Their thoughts and meanings about life and beyond, undesirable and judged but that is the human mentality, such as Hazel Grace felt about her casualties and Alaska Young wondered about the labyrinth's unending game. So standard at first, but then Gandalf came and Bilbo learned the differences between Hobbit and the untame. The reasons and purposes of life's grand living, through the eyes of those whose faces are shunned.
Hermione wasn't just a bibliosiac.
I want to write like Green, like Tolkien, like me.
Alas, the clock, a stained moon, it darkens, and the prejudice of people as well as the pride, unfortunately Austen couldn't lessen so much. Stereotypes triumphantly sit on the throne with their Mary-Sue maids catering from head to toe. I can't barge in, object to the crowning, because today I admit it: my writing is dying.
Jan 3, 2015
Jan 3, 2015 at 1:39 PM UTC
You said I was Alaska- its true
But I'm not gonna crash that car.
I replied 'then you're the Colonel'
And you're much better- by far.
You always said you were Lennie
And this I was George- the clever one.
But I am the fool and you are the brighter,
You'll be around when I'm gone.
You always thought you were Ron
And me Hermione- I guess so.
But then who's Harry- *** we're not gonna marry
It's you- you are the hero.
I reckon I'm Eragon- the wanna be warrior
With a lot to learn.
But I've Saphira by my side
Level-headed fun and stern.
I'm Frodo- I keep going,
But weakness roots in my heart
In you I have found my Sam,
Won't let me fall back to the start.
Asterix the bright and clever-
Always knows what to do.
I follow- a faithful Obelix,
I'll always look to you.
And if I am truly Odin then you are Asgard itself.
How many other ways can I describe our friendship?
Your are Peter the rock-
And I am Thomas the doubter.
May 27, 2014
May 27, 2014 at 6:37 PM UTC
A "Memories" poem by the immortal Barry Hodges aka Edna
Night fell on Montmartre and, gazing into my love's eyes
Over a candelit chequered tablecloth,
Beneath my belt lurked rancid lust,
The seams of my trousers oozing love's sweet song,
My groin lumped in desire for her wanton arse-flesh.
Streetlight shone through threadbare curtains
Harnessing proudly over my pounding buttocks;
Hermione's screamed climaxes echoing
In deepest recesses of her third-rate mind.
My clear goal: swallow my salty comings, cow.
Morning exposes a sordid scene to chambermaid's gawp:
Spreadeagled cold-as-chilled-salami ****
Puny synapses crushed like mashed strawberries
Blasted smithereens of overpowering *******
Like chicken's entrails in an unwashed sink.
Aug 12, 2015
Aug 12, 2015 at 8:41 AM UTC
I was your Harry.
And you were my friend, Hermione.
I liked it when people see us together
And tell us we're fit one another
When in reality,
I was just an extra in your story
I loved you secretly,
Even though reciprocating it is just a fantasy,
And so I watched you end up with my bestfriend, Ron
When I knew that should've been me.
Sep 20, 2017
Sep 20, 2017 at 6:03 AM UTC
i hear the whistle of a mockingjay
play every time someone says your name.
a rebel girl in a patriarchal world
defying the absurd iterations of hyper-masculine
oppression that manifest themselves in solipsistic
displays of impotent aggression.
how do you muster the compassion
to forgive seventy times seven?
i want to learn to love like you.
the white noise fades away
when you and i fly
down the interstate.
the breeze teases
your hair, the sun
kisses your face
the way i'd like to.
i hope you hear my voice
every time one of our favorite songs
gets stuck inside your head,
singing in time to the rhythms of love requited.
have faith in me.
and i'm trying hard—
real hard—every day
not to lose my temper
with these circumstantial quandaries
that leave us wondering whether or not
we should press pause.
instead i'll climb the mountains
of your vertebrae so i might find
a resting place in the holiest of holies.
if only i could shrink myself down,
dance between the synaptic gaps of your brain cells,
i could see reality through your eyes—
twirling like twin nebulae,
galaxies inviting me to endless epiphanies.
i want to lose myself in your universe.
your courage is infectious.
when i hold your hand,
i summon the strength to smash the State
and all the arbitrary authorities
trying to dictate the limits of liberty,
that instigate injustice and propagate malice.
it all just falls away until it's you and me,
forever us against them all.
you're like Hermione,
time-turner included,
feeding the homeless,
leading a women's health group,
acting for a short film,
directing a play,
writing a novel,
all in a day's work.
and you breathe white-hot fire
when you fight for the disenfranchised
recognizing that those who are neutral
in situations of injustice have chosen
the side of the oppressor and it's quite
impressive how you stand-up for
the little guy or invite the social acolyte over
to your table to have a bite of whatever
vegetarian dish you cooked up last night.
i see you on the silver screen,
in each new book i read ,
in every single note i sing,
latent remnants in recited rhymes
of poetry from the one and only Bukowski:
i found what i love
and i want it to **** me.
Dec 28, 2015
Dec 28, 2015 at 7:54 AM UTC
I am a poetry wizard (or witch)
I may not be the Hermione of the poetry world,
But sometimes,
If I try hard enough,
I can stupefy you with my words.
My pens are my wands
My words are my spells
And this paper is my cauldron.
Sometimes the potions go wrong
And I'm left with a poem that resembles a catlike Hermoine;
I'm just using the wrong ingredients.
I have Ron's and Harry's to support me in all of my poetic adventures,
No matter how stupid.
One day,
After all of the potions and poems have worn me out,
I will not be just another poet.
I am a poetry wizard (or witch)
And I will be known as
The Girl Who Wrote
Oct 12, 2013
Oct 12, 2013 at 8:25 PM UTC
#043016
He was a psychopath,
But not like the lead of Sherlock Holmes.
Maybe a scientist,
But his name was not because of Einstein himself.
Maybe a doctor,
Not like Dr. Seuss who's a nature lover.
Apparently, he's Professor X
But he never was laid in his techy wheel chair.
I saw Moriarty
But he's like an agent, sort of a policeman.
He died in a brutal story.
How I wish he was a man as Moriarty himself.
And Mary, she was arrogant
Without a white aura of being a nurse.
She's not a patient at all,
Maybe it's her attitude though.
Harry's hair I don't like.
Sorry, not Harry Styles, I mean;
Remember Hermione and Ron's friend?
Yeah, that Potter sequels I once read all day long.
His a wet-look chap and a hunchback.
And Frankenstein himself tore his life into new,
He fell in love with his co-actor in the circus.
But I see no chemistry in them,
Heights were not good at all.
I wore no veil of movies leaked
But some were simply bedtime story.
Apr 29, 2016
Apr 29, 2016 at 1:12 PM UTC
I am from my father’s warm cooking,
From my mom and grandma’s baking.
I am from the soggy, overdone noodles, that, though disgusting,
I was proud of because I made them myself.
I am from lemonade stands with my sister,
Keeping careful watch to see that she didn’t run into the street.
I am from drinking most of our product that we were supposed to be selling,
And making my mother pay twenty-five cents to do the same.
I am from lights on my face as I slipped into the life of another person,
proudly singing a song.
I am from “break a leg,” and “you can do it.”
I am from dancing badly and the music that compelled me to do so.
I am from Emergency Room trips,
From falling and stumbling and crashing into things.
I am from the bonfires at the camp I hated
(sparkly, mesmerizing, didn’t feel as nice as it looked)
I am from Ernie and Bert’s pointless arguments,
From my old fears of
Cookie Monster,
and crying when he came on the television.
I am from June and Mortimer’s branch.
From the crazy heritage from my dad,
and the Native American woman and the English man
who are my great-great-great-great grandparents.
I am from the chemotherapy and radiation that
didn’t work,
and crying when I heard that the boy
I had never met had died.
I am from Milo and the Phantom Tollbooth,
From the adventures that I enjoyed with Harry, Hermione, and Ron.
I am from the books that I read at a very young age
that made me love the letters on the pages.
I have boxes, filled with memories.
A birth certificate,
shoes that barely fit two of my fingers.
I am from the stories that were told,
and the unwritten tales
yet to come
Oct 10, 2014
Oct 10, 2014 at 2:17 PM UTC
and my fingers will trace these scars on your chest — they're no fault lines but darling, i can fall and fall and fold myself into wildflowers on which sunlight unfurls. but this world, it's a battlefield and red roses bloom not from the soil but from the skin and every death feels like the first.
every kiss feels like the last.
and darling, tomorrow, we have all the time to be broken. we have all the time to grow up. but tonight, let me hold you close; my hands are weary of writing elegies. tonight, let me drown in your seastorm eyes; i am tired of looking for temporary ports and for all the wrong shades of blue. tonight, i will read you poems about a girl named helen, who loved despite the war. tonight, the world can crumble down and i can stay right here, safe and sound in the comfort of your sighs, like a girl resting against bruised lilacs. i can stay right here watching you sleep until the earliest hours, forever asking myself how can someone so ****** so broken by this world possess this much softness.
this much gentleness.
this much peace.
regardless, rest your weary bones, my love. morning still is far away.
May 19, 2020
May 19, 2020 at 9:55 AM UTC
You are my source of comfort
The candle that provides me light
On the darkest of nights
The day I met you
Was the luckiest day of my life
Over nine years has it been since
And has our relationship grown
From colleagues to friends
From friends to best friends
And last but not the least
From best friends to family friends
Cared, have you, for me
Like Hermione Granger did for Harry Potter
And vice-versa, of course
Advised me on many an occasion
Even took the liberty to scold me
Not to mention, once asking me to google "Friendship"!!
Living proof are we
That a boy and a girl can friends be
In fact, not just friends, but best friends!!
Not to mention, even after your marriage
Has our bond continued to flourish
In fact, grown has it, by leaps and bounds!!
Fought have we, many a time
However, on each occasion
Has our understanding deepened
As has our mutual respect
Our relationship having a foundation
Even mightier than Team India in this Cricket World Cup!!
Saved me, have you
From a trainwreck of a marriage
And a few other crisis situations
There simply ain't nothing
You can do for me not
A part of my extended family, are you
And vice-versa too!!
Lost count have I, seriously
Of the number of times
Have we helped each other out!!
I love you
As I love my sister
And shall we continue
To be there for each other
Till Death do us part
Thank you for entering my life
And may God bless you
With oodles of love, peace, happiness and prosperity!!
Nov 8, 2023
Nov 8, 2023 at 1:04 PM UTC
At the park alone with nature's song
At the bar alone with endless chats,
and theories of where we belong.
Alone at the library with Harry, Hermione and Ron.
I go to bed at night alone,
with my conscience and all it bestows.
I wake and drive to work alone,
with Tracy, Bob and the 'Stones.
Alone on my bike in the city,
with the wind at my back, and make no pity,
It's never alone, really
Aug 14, 2014
Aug 14, 2014 at 9:27 PM UTC
No, I do not hate Hermione Granger.
The love of my love just brings a sharp ache.
I wept for the loss in my teen-aged brain.
How I wish I'd lived to grow past this pain.
Alas I'm gone, in a sweep of the claws.
My legacy no more than a forgotten flame.
I had so much to offer, so much to give
but I suppose not all tales end in a grin.
Aug 17, 2019
Aug 17, 2019 at 6:57 PM UTC
I've wanted to **** myself since I was 12. I don't know when it started or how, but there are many whys. New reasons have come every year, and old reasons have an interesting staying power that you wouldn't really expect. Sure, I forgive. My traumas are not the result of active hate towards me. They are ramifications, small waves from a rock dropped in a pool that gently washed over me and through me, caking salt in the fundamental components of my heart and soul. They are me and they are not me. I've made so much progress, and I have so much to be proud of but I'm not. I try to convince myself I am in conversations with my friends, mother, therapist. You're so eloquent, they say. So introspective. Am I? I'm just lying. I'm only happy when I'm ****** drunk or both. Sometimes I seem okay sober, and sometimes I'm more okay than others. Even when I'm more okay I still want to die. I could be driving down the road listening to my favorite songs and I will still think of five separate things I can do to **** myself. But it seems selfish. My mother has brought me into this life, not exactly intentionally but she raised me the best she could and has a lot of pride in the woman she thinks she's caused. My friends rely on me for support, or even advice on how to help other friends because "they know I've been though this already" as if it's not still happening. I don't want to **** myself. Not really. I want to disappear like ******* Hermione, you know? Just forgotten, no one gets hurt. I'm loved. But it's not enough.
My heart is so full of love but none of it is for me.
I want to create love for myself inside my own heart.
I want to understand I am fundamentally flawed without hating myself for those flaws.
I want to give myself the same benefits I do others.
I want to hold myself to the same standards as I do my friends.
I want to feel good. Whole. But for now i feel empty.
Dec 8, 2017
Dec 8, 2017 at 9:07 PM UTC
We walked in the rain
I showed her my scars
She showed me her pain.
We kissed in the mist of a late spring downpour
I wanted more
she told me to wait
It got late
and later still
Until I could stand it no longer
our kisses became stronger
and we made our way into the break of a new day.
She became shy
I asked why
told her, I had died in her passions
she said, 'old fashioned'
and she gave me that look
that took me away
I wanted to stay.
Without her I'm lost
tossed like a ship on the uncharted seas
She will do as she wishes
Please wish for me
Hermione.
Apr 12, 2013
Apr 12, 2013 at 5:14 PM UTC
When I was 11, my best friend told me that they were gay.
Their eyes were glazed with watery doubt and their voice quivered to the same pace as my trembling heart. I prayed for seven hours that evening, begging God to cleanse them of these sins that I didn’t quite understand to be wrong but that my mother and father and sister and aunt spat out like deadly poison.
When I was 11, my best friend told me that they were gay. And I screamed words that I learnt from my family, words that felt ***** and disfigured in my mouth, words that had no meaning that I could decipher.
When I was 11 years old, my best friend told me that when we watched Harry Potter together, when our friends drooled over Cedric Diggory, they
fell
in
love
with Hermione Granger
When I was 11, my best friend told me that they were gay… and I didn’t know what the word meant. Just that it was awful and demonic and that they were going to rot in hell. At the tender age of 11 my mother’s religion eviscerated a 7 year friendship.
When I was 12, I realised that it wasn’t God I worshipped, it was the feeling of belonging. I idolised my Father’s radiant smile and my Sister’s reverent voice, her face raised to the heavens and her song echoing across a stained glass chapel. When I was only 12 years old, I discovered that I was a slave of my family’s beliefs, and that I didn’t understand what my religion even was, only that my aunt liked it when we clasped hands around a dinner table and that my gran reminded me to recite the same words before bed every night. Pretty words like ‘glory’ and ‘heaven’ but also malicious words like ‘temptation’ and ‘evil’ and ‘sin’, words that I, with a shudder and an almighty stab of guilt, remembered saying to my best friend at 11 years old.
When I was 13, I was angry. A furious cloud of space-black smoke swirling in my stomach and pulling on my tongue, until I was a silent and malevolent storm. When I was 13, I realised that if this is what being close to god feels like, then I would rather burn in the raging pits hell, surrounded by the same billowing barrages of blackness as those inside of me. When I was 13, I found out what gay meant, and I sobbed and howled and screamed. Inside of my own head. When I was 13 I apologised to the person who was once my best friend, and with eyes glazed with watery defiance and a voice quivering with nothing but assuredness I told them ‘me too’.
And we clung onto each other promising to never let go.
Mar 29, 2018
Mar 29, 2018 at 5:10 AM UTC