Sometimes, I think a lot about Newt Scamander on a plane and then I write poetry about him. As one does.
Enjoy!
-Marcelle
He is a man among beasts.
He is all gangly limbs and disheveled locks.
The flaps on his trenchcoat are turned up against the wind,
And he will pick them back up should they fall flat.
He is a light traveler and a heavy sleeper,
Desperate to fall into dreams despite already residing in fantasy.
Someone of his kind ought to be more careful, really.
But he is often found shaking hands opposite caution.
Perhaps he should know better, and he does.
But knowledge is courage and courage does not sit still.
He is drawn to greens and blues and the white hot centers of the stars,
Finding solace in the most wild of places.
A tamer, a finder, a mother.
He does these things not because he can, or he should, but because he must.
He is granite and he is clay.
Solid, firm, and yet one must be careful,
For even stone can be broken.
And he is not one to stray from humanity,
Though he does not always find himself to be a part of it.
He is smiles and bubbling laughter and wicked grins.
"Worrying means you suffer twice."
He is early sunrises and midnight talks and soft wooden doors,
Treasured and steady and safe.
He is a blanket in the winter just as he is the rushing wind.
And there will come a day when the man among beasts
Learns to roar.