HP4GU Contest #2 Results

[joym999 at aol.com]

No: HPFGUIDX 18936

Well, despite my constant and undoubtedly annoying cajoling, I only 
managed to persuade a handful of people to try their hand at poetry.  
However, what we lack in quantity we make up for in quality.

The entries prove that you are all much, much better poets than I am 
(not surprisingly).  I have reproduced the poems below, and also in 
the files section.  

It is very fortunate that the Moderators insisted that this be a non-
competitive contest, as there is no way I could have picked a 
winner.  I really loved all of these poems.  Much thanks to our poets 
Jamieson, Amy Z., Amber, Parker, Trina, Neil and Mecki.

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I love the way Jamieson captures Hermiones essence:
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Her-My-Own-Ee
by Jamieson Wolf Villeneuve

Sands of time hang around her neck,
a little desert of her own,
isolating her from others,
intelligence goes only so far.
She feels the glares of others
burning into the back of her head,
a sore spot of heat
that won't go away,
like a spot of blood,
or a past.
She talks to herself a great deal,
voices of self-doubt creep up
to catch her off guard.
Books become a shield,
the shield becomes a moat,
once again isolating her
from the reality of Magic;
helping her forget,
for a while,
that it really does
exist.

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These amusing little poems by Amy are in a form called a *clerihew*:
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Untitled
by Amy Z.

Severus Snape
May enjoy swooping about in a long black cape
But that
Doesn't prove he's a bat.

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Untitled
by Amy Z.

Harry Potter
Frequently doesn't do what he oughter
Leading some cultural conservatives
To have reservatives.

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Ode on The Kiss
by Amy Z.

Hermione Granger
May not be aware of the danger
But her loose lips
Can sink ships.

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A fitting tribute from Parker:
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At the Time of the Full Moon
(An Ode to the Marauders)
by Parker Brown Nesbit  2001

When all is still and quiet
And the moon is full,
We go out and play.

No one knows who we are
No one knows what we do,
We'll keep it that way.

Three of us are Animagi
One a werewolf,
We'll keep him in check.

Rumours are spreading wide
Werewolves are in the Forest,
and the shack is haunted.

We've written a guide 
For making much mischief,
and escaping the castle. 

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Wow!  Who would have thought we would get a poem about Wendelin the 
Weird.  With rhyme and meter and everything!  Good going, Trina!:
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Wendelin the Weird
by Trina

Wendelin the Weird 
Never, ever feared
The stupid Muggle gits 
Who wished to fry her into bits.

Her wand hidden up a sleeve, 
The simple Muggles she deceived.
Using disguises wild and plenty
Pretending to be in agony,
(On forty-seven new occasions) 
Just for the tickling sensation.

And when her fun was done for the day
She'd just Apparate away.

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Amber included some notes about who, exactly, each of her poems are 
about, but I will let all you smartypants figure that out for 
yourselves:
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"Three Witches Flying"
by Amber

>From here atop my sturdy broom
I watch the Chasers fly below
Watch them as they swirl and zoom
Watch them as they pass and throw.

For while I've just the Snitch to catch
They must work to try and score
And while I've credit for winning the match
They deserve it so much more.

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"Symbols"
by Amber

They don't see me,
only my symbols.

Largest, the scar.
Lightning bolt striking,
melted into place.
My hissing
snake-speech, parseltongue
is all they hear.
Thinking
'Boy who lived, boy who fought,
boy who might die'.

They don't see me,
only my symbols.

Brightest, the hair.
Screaming fire flaming,
painting my face blank
for its all others see.
My sarcasm
biting, rolling remarks
is all they hear.
Thinking
'You're your brother, sister, father, mother
Nobody new'.

They don't see me,
only my symbols.

Sturdiest, the books.
Hard-backed, covering,
body propped up by pages.
My answers
record-broken, ever continuing,
is all they hear.
Thinking
'Know it all, know it all,
Knows so little'.

They don't see a Hero that fears.
They don't see a Fire that yearns.
They don't see a Book that cries.

They don't see us,
only our symbols.

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I had to badger Neil to send me a poem, and promise to buy him a new 
hairnet, but it was worth it.  Love that title!:
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**Beyond The Fringe**
by Neil Ward

In the covered lamplight, lurking,
Curtains drawn and crystals humming
Madam Soothsayer is working.
She cries: "Doom to one is coming!"

Soft and misty in her diction,
She sees dead and buried rabbits,
As the mistress of prediction,
She portends all evil habits.

When it comes to Christmas dining,
She is really just the type.
To refuse the stomach lining,
But indulge the ways of tripe.

As she joins the twelve at table,
"We're thirteen!" she cries, with fervour.
Her composure shifts, unstable.
 "Just sit down!" retorts Minerva.

With her inner eye switched on,
She spots Harry (whom she teaches).
Rhyme and reasoning are gone,
"You will die the death!" she screeches.

>From the star charts to the tealeaves,
Some declare she's false and corny,
But those lofty tales she weaves:
We just love her - she's Trelawney!

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The following poems did not follow the rules of the contest, as they 
are about HP in general rather than specific characters, but I like 
them so I am including them anyway.  I can relate to Mecki's desire, 
and I love the fact that the last word of Jamieson's poem is, well, 
you'll see:
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Untitled
by Mecki:

I love to read the Potter-books to flee,
or so it seems

from life as mother and housewife
into fantasy and dreams.

but afterwards a wish,
desire's in my head

stays and nags inside it,
from morning until bed.

I do not think it's tragic
I can't do any magic

but what I really want,
when dusting all my shelves

is nothing more or less
than half a dozen elves

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Untitled
by Jamieson Wolf Villeneuve

It starts
as it always does
with words.
Syllables streched and tugged,
taffy of speech,
sewn together to form
a word, a phrase,
a language of Muses,
a cornocopia of sounds;
perhpas those sounds are
"Alahoma" or "Crucify".
And maybe these words yearn
to defile a virgin white page,
those wordsleading to other words and sounds,
"Magic" for example,
or "Wizard".
For some, sounds and words
take on a different meaning;
something that reaches
into the furthermost part
of our soul,
to take on a shape of being
or a being made
of Dream-World nightmares.
Words like
 "Mother" or "Darkness" or "hate"
or "Scar".