The Magic Wand
A poem by Marty Gervais
The wizard is poised in the room
like a Halloween witch
with that wide-brimmed peaked hat
prattling on like a philosopher
inviting us to feel that invisible ball of energy
vibrating between our outstretched hands
She’s here for the launch of the new Harry Potter book
but my five-year-old grandson is lost
in the magic wand she has placed in his hands
as she speaks about drawing protectives circles
casting spells, warding off dark forces,
even banishing bunions
My grandson marvels at this instrument
whispering feverishly “Abracadabra…abracadabra…”
—no longer hearing this wizard
who has fashioned this shaman’s wand
from an aging oak tree
Instead, he’s channelling his own energy into the room
but it isn’t working, nothing is flying about,
no sudden gusts of wind, nor pantry doors
slamming shut, nor tea cups rattling in mid air
and nothing bigger than he might imagine:
still poverty, still a need for world peace,
still violence and pestilence and polluted lakes
My grandson is poised and ready
And frantically waves the wand about him
like a symphony conductor gone mad
yet nothing changes —it won’t even silence
this nattering witch from telling us
about Greco Roman wands
or ceremonial fire wands and lotus wands
or those used by the freemasons in
all their ritualistic nonsense
Then suddenly in a dramatic abracadabra ending
my grandson shatters the spell:
“Hey, lady, how does this thing work?”