Why J.K. Rowling Skipped the Years Between the Last Chapter and the Epilogue

In case you can't guess from the title of this poem, I am a huge fan of Harry Potter. So of course, when I picked my theme for my stand-up poetry class (which is placing well-known movie, TV, or literature characters in absurd situations), it was only a matter of what character, and what situation. I'm sure I could have done any number of things for this. For example, Lord Voldemort is a ballet. Or Dobby the house elf as the lead guitarist for a famous rock and roll band. Come to think of it, those are good ideas. They might turn into poems someday soon. But what I settled on is actually a bit of a cliche: Harry Potter working at McDonald's. Who wouldn't think of that, right? But I built off of that, and didn't let myself get tied to just Harry Potter's character. It's also a sort of personal revenge. I always wanted to know what happened right after the battle of Hogwarts, and you don't get to find out. This is as good of a reason as any that she jumped ahead! I've written it as a radio show, and attempted to convey a more factual voice. I'm pretty happy with the way this turned out, though it's always possible I'll go back and rework it! But here it is, called Why J.K. Rowling Skipped the Years Between the Last Chapter and the Epilogue:

It is a sad day, indeed, when a bad

economy can affect the job market in the

wizarding world. Ministry officials are working

around the clock to fix this problem, but it appears

that not even magic can help the situation.                                         

For the time being, many wizards and witches have tried

to find jobs within the Muggle

world. With the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy still

in place, this is proving to be a difficult feat. But Arthur Weasley, long-time

defender of Muggles, is now teaching a

How To Survive in the Muggle World: No, the Microwave

Will Not Kill You class at Hogwarts School

of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Witches and wizards of all ages are urged

to attend his nightly sessions in the hopes that kitchen appliances

will stop being sent to Azkaban.

We have reports from some about their experiences in their new-found

jobs. One witch competed on the popular television program

Britain’s Got Talent. If you have watched the show, then yes, folks,

Ms. Susan Boyle is indeed one of us! We send out our mightiest

congratulations for her use of multiple voice-changing spells and we feel, despite

Simon Cowell’s position in the Ministry and his belief that her use of magic is

“cheating,” that she is a good role model for young witches and wizards everywhere.
Especially since most of the reports are not as successful.

Mr. Randolph Baddock of Surrey works at a gas station

on 5^th street. Despite the boring job, he is in good spirits. He joked that his

patronus has become a Muggle car, ending our interview with a

laugh by changing the spell to “Expecto Petroleum.”
Perhaps those who have it the worst are some of You-Know-Who’s former

followers. While most are imprisoned, others are fulfilling community

service hours and living under 24-hour surveillance in their homes. Mr. Lucius

Malfoy and his son, Draco, have been put to work as Salvation Army

Santas outside of a Muggle grocery store. The latest news tells us that the young

Malfoy’s wand was taken away from him yesterday after he filled

the collecting bin with leprechaun

gold, only for it to disappear hours later.

But the major question remains. What has happened to our

great hero of the past decade? Well, we met up with young

Harry Potter today. Despite his ability to save the wizarding world

with Expelliarmus, Potter shared with us his struggles while working

at the Muggle restaurant,

McDonald’s. He said that “in the Muggle world, a Hogwarts education is actually

impractical. Attempting to disarm a broken frialator does absolutely

nothing to fix it.”

It seems as though we are in for some rough years

ahead if even the defeater of You-Know-Who cannot find

a job in or outside of the Wizarding community. After a decade

of dark and confusing times, this seems most cruel. It is in these

moments that we look to our greatest wizards, and we believe

that in the face of such turmoil, Albus Dumbledore,

may he rest in peace, would comfort us with these words:

                                static    

               static                staticccccccccccccc

                                                static      static

                                                                …static

Well, we hope to see you tonight for the next session of

How to Survive in the Muggle World, where Arthur Weasley will explain

how to dress appropriately if you wish to be seen

in public.

*If you found yourself confused by any of the words used

in this evening’s broadcast, such as “television,” “frialator,” or

“santa,” please stay tuned for our next program,

“Muggles Say the Darndest Things” with our host,

Bill Cosby.*

The Peter Pan Blues

One type of poem we studied in my poetry seminar class is the Blues poem. While the structure of this is only vaguely defined, there are general rules a poem needs to follow in order to fall in this category. These include but are not limited to repetition within the verses, a rhythm that can be set through such things as rhyme schemes and line lengths, and a sad topic. I wrote a poem talking about what it is like to see your hometown change from when you were a kid to when you're older. This was especially poignant for me because of my visits back home from college; even though I would only be gone for a month or two at a time, a lot of things would change. There is also the fact that growing up, in itself, is sad. So I worked that into my poem, repeating, though not directly, the lines that come before and I incorporate personal experiences in it. Places that I mention, such as Duffy park, are real. I called it The Peter Pan Blues, and I still think that's one of the most fitting titles I've had for any of the poems or stories I've written.

used to play at Duffy park

pumping legs on the swing

used to run ‘round Duffy park

flying high on the swing

before the sand was all scooped up

cement covering the whole thing

climbed trees in my backyard

gnarled branches were my throne

climbed all the trees in friends’ backyards

shoes off, branches were my throne

before the trees were defaced

to hang wires for our phones

played tag with all my neighbors

night protecting us from view

ran the block with neighbors

the dark night shading us from view

‘til new lights lit the street

and all the neighbors grew

high school’s lawn of green grass

where we played all our ballgames

huge field of green grass

perfect place to play our games

disappeared beneath a nursing home

so they could fix old-body pains

there is no Never Never Land

no place where time stands still

            it’s a nonexistent island

            cause time cannot stand still

            we may wish the world would never change

            but the truth is, it will.

The Dish Room

I know I already posted a poem that was inspired by my work in my dining hall, which we all call Saga even though that company has not serviced Illinois Wesleyan in many years. Since I spent a lot of my time there, I always enjoyed writing poems or stories that were based off of my many dull or incredibly ridiculous experiences there. For another poetry class I took where we studied different forms of poetry (such as rengas, blues poems, ghazals, and villanelles), I wrote a blank verse poem about what it's like to spend a shift working in the dish room.

I was drawn to this idea because of the structure of blank verse. There is no rhyming, but there is still a focus towards making each line follow iambic pentameter. Therefore the sound of the poem and the lines becomes really important. I took that and applied it to what I was writing about, using the sounds of the dish room to explain the experience of working in there.

This is my first draft of the poem, that was originally titled Behind the Scenes of Saga:

I stretch and reach beyond my grasp, hands close,

arms lift; a clink, then clank, small splash, then splatter.

The music blares from old worn speakers. Force

my hands to do the work while voices screech

outside the room. Behind my back come clanks

and clinks much louder than my own. A fan

blows air to caress my face, attempting plans

to soothe my skin. It fails; the battle won

by angry heat, not gentle breeze. My hands

turn pruny, time goes slowly, people exit

and enter. Nothing’s constant, just the clinking

and clanking; tinkling, splatters. Stop. It stops.

No dirty dishes left. The cups are stacked,

the dishroom clean. Another shift finally done. 

While the sounds work really well, the feel of the poem was not right. We did a lot of peer editing in this class (and all of my writing seminars), so after hearing what my peers had to say, I set to reworking the poem, keeping in mind their ideas as well as my own. After a couple different rewrites, this is what I deemed the "final version" to hand in to my professor as part of my portfolio:

I stretch and reach, just in my grasp. Hands close,

arms lift; a clink, then clank, small splash, then splatter.

A knocking; plop –the garbage fills, the reek

of food not meant for mixing floats -

a toxic gas. The clunks of cups ring round

like hollow bells as bubbling water streams

beneath my hand - a witch’s brew of soap,

forgotten drinks, uneaten food. Each scratch

of sponge against the bowls and plates mimics

the whirring fan, whose frail attempt to soothe

my skin is lost amidst the angry heat.

Loud voices mumble, snippets, words, a life

outside this tedium; it’s masked by wails

of labor, screeches grating from the dish

machine. A sudden hush. The trays have stopped.

“Push tray in, please,” a shout beside me. Pause -

then round they go again. First one, then two

trays - three, then four. A pile forms, the rush

takes over. Thoughts trail off. It’s pull, then dump,

(the plops and splash), short scrubs and clanks, repeat.

My fingers: pruny. Gloves turn red, the time

does not exist.

                             Until the dishes slow,

the trays are single. Language is again

remembered, a rock song can be heard

once more. There’s not much left but sorting through

the forks and knives and spoons, the tinkling drowned

by laughs of sweaty, tired people – they are my break from monotony.

In this version, I bring more specifics to the sounds I mention in the original draft, allowing the reader to know what's ploping or clunking in order for them to imagine being there. I also include more sounds, such as the yell of a fellow coworker and the songs on the radio. This adds more depth to the scene than just focusing on the sounds of the silverware, plates, food, or cups that come around on the try return. There is also a longer sense of time on the final version, moving from the slower beginning of a shift to the rush and to the last of the trays coming around. 

My favorite change comes at the end, when speaking of working with my coworkers. Bringing them into the poem and sort of hinting at the way in which I interact with them breaks up the more mechanistic feel of the sounds that occur while cleaning the dishes; it is a break from the monotony, and as I state that in the poem, I also break away from the iambic pentameter. It is a much stronger ending. On a more personal level, it pays tribute to the fact that my coworkers could always make a shift better, which something that I will always be grateful for and therefore something I wished to portray.

Blur

Here is another poem I wrote, something a bit more serious. This was also for my stand-up poetry class, and the assignment was to write a poem that dealt with a touchy subject without talking about that subject directly. This is actually a poem that proved to be a bit difficult to figure out completely, as it was hard to pick which details I should or should not include, especially since any details I did put in needed to also pertain to my touchy subject, race. It also involved a decent amount of research on the Tour de France, and I still think this piece is a work in process. But here it is, titled Blur.

You ask what race I am and I look you

directly in the eye and say

the Tour de France

because I like bicycling.

And Lance Armstrong, but that’s beside the point.

This race involves people

from different countries, a route that

silently crosses borders. Colored jerseys

are worn to embody distinctions but as each

person moves forward, the shades all blur;

the white, the red, the black, the yellow

all blend together until it’s impossible

to tell the difference, to separate any one

color,

 but we get so caught up

in trying to figure it out that we don’t even notice who

is passing us by.

This route covers long distances, goes over mountains

and plains, through towns and woods. The riders experience difficulties,

tension, stress, and crashes, deal with pain and discomfort and

yet

they keep going. With large hearts and a steel

will, they race, each foot pedaling forward, their wheels

circling in unison until they reach their destination of the Arc de Triomphe.

Does that answer your question?

Not On My Watch

This is an argumentative poem that I wrote that was inspired by a day on the job in my dining hall/cafeteria, after I witnessed a boy put a spoon in his mouth and then dip it into a container of peanut butter. Needless to say, I was grossed out. This is one poem that is meant to be performed in front of an audience, and is much more fun in a performance setting. After much debate, I named it Not On My Watch.

You, sir. You who would stop

at nothing to eat your spoonful

of peanut butter-

Stop.

Put the spoon down.

It may be tempting to stick it

in that pile of brown goop

that is quicksand

for your tongue,

and I get it. The adventure, the mystery,

the bad-assery that comes with the territory

of dipping a spoon into a container of peanut butter.

But once this spoon has come in contact

with your mouth, the game’s over.

The peanut butter is no longer in bounds.

You do know that human mouths are dirtier than

dog mouths, right? And dogs lick their

ass.

So just think, that spoon is now contaminated by your

germs and bacteria that will combine

with that nutty brown substance and do terrible

things to your peanut butter successors.

Like 28 Days Later, I am suddenly a peanut

person behind you, staring at you as though

you are the one who looks like food. You’ll jump

into the next room, lock the door, turn on the TV and see

the breaking news:
“Attack of the Nut People!” You’ll watch

footage of three poor transformed souls barreling down

customers in a grocery store to fill their arms

with bottles of Jiffy, Skippy, and

Kroger brand. They open the jars, frantically

grab handfuls and stuff it in their mouths.
Vegetarian Zombies? They can’t hurt you.

You’ll feel relieved.

Classic mistake. Because you then see the zombies spit

their peanut butter at the customers,

and the instant it hits them they begin

to mutate into peanut-form,

teeth bared,

eyes glaring,

veins bulging,

monocles growing in one eye,

canes shooting out of their hands,

top hats appearing on heads that are as

bald and pruny as a baby’s butt

after birth. The footage abruptly stops

and you see the scene in the newsroom.

The peanut zombies have gotten

inside, spitting peanut butter at the anchors,

the cameramen. The weather man dives behind

his green screen and for one second, you see today’s forecast:

Pleasant, and sunny.

Then a mouthful of gooey,

spit-filled, poo-like peanut

butter hits the camera and the screen goes dark.

You stare at it in shock, clutch

the remote control in your hand. You can smell

peanut butter. The knob to your room begins

to jingle…

So you. Yes, you, with the spoon in your mouth on your way

to that container of peanut butter,

pause for one second, use your common sense,

and put the spoon down.

And please, seriously, get your

dick out of the jelly.

He Went to Jared

While playing around with different formats of poems in a Stand-Up poetry class I took, I came across the idea of creating one that follows the form of a play. This is also one of five poems I wrote that place well-known fictional characters in an absurd position. See if you can figure out what character is incorporated in this poem, titled He Went to Jared.

(Scene opens at a display case in JARED, THE GALLERIA OF JEWELRY. Customers browse behind the case to the tune of “I’m Too Sexy” by Right Said Fred, admiring the spotlights on the rings. The smell is like that of a bakery, a fragrance the OWNER sprays from a Febreze bottle for precisely 1.23 minutes every time the shop is about to be opened, leaving the scent of freshly-baked cookies in the air. On the display case is a sign that says SALE!)

THE ONE RING TO RULE THEM ALL (raspy): Where the hell am I?

3.5 CARAT DIAMOND RING (in a sultry voice): You’re in Jared, baby.

THE ONE RING TO RULE THEM ALL: Come again?

1.5 CARAT DIAMOND RING: Jared, where only the best guys come to get their engagement rings!

THE ONE RING TO RULE THEM ALL: Engagement rings?

2 CARAT DIAMOND RING: Like, you know, when you’re going to get married, and you like, need to get a ring to ask the girl. It’s like, you know, that ring. We stand as a symbol of love and happiness between two people for like, the rest of our lives. And like, the girl loves it. She’s always, like, “Oh my god, he went to Jaredddd” and then we just, like, glitter. Girls love that. They love like, hard, sparkly things.

THE ONE RING TO RULE THEM ALL: I destroy marriages!

1 CARAT DIAMOND RING: That’s mean!

THE ONE RING TO RULE THEM ALL: I am MEAN! Do as I say!

RUBY RING (with sass): Who do you think you are? You got no power over us!

(THE ONE RING TO RULE THEM ALL flashes red hot. The other rings stare in awe. MAN at the counter points and yells excitedly.)

OWNER (exasperated with a hint of whine): Yes?

MAN (breathless): THAT! That ring! I want that ring!

OWNER: Ahhhh, yes, I’ve heard this is a semi-precious ring.

(OWNER takes the ring out of the case and hands it to MAN. THE ONE RING TO RULE THEM ALL shivers in anticipation.)

THE ONE RING TO RULE THEM ALL (seductively): Yesss. Buy me. I will conquer humanity by ruining your marriage. I will make you crazy. I will make you grow bald. I will call my Ringwraith friends to kill your babies. I am more beautiful than your girlfriend. I am more beautiful than your girlfriend. I am more beautiful than your girlfriend…

MAN (whispers): It’s almost more beautiful than my girlfriend.

THE ONE RING TO RULE THEM ALL (yells): I AM more beautiful than your girlfriend! She is UGLY. And senile.

MAN: She is ugly, actually. Like a sea lion.

THE ONE RING TO RULE THEM ALL (would shake head if it had one): Close enough.

OWNER: I’m sorry, what?

THE ONE RING TO RULE THEM ALL: You want me.

MAN: I want you.

OWNER: Me? You want me?

THE ONE RING TO RULE THEM ALL: No, you idiot, you want me!

MAN (speaking without moving his O face): Yes, yes, this is it. I wants it.

THE ONE RING TO RULE THEM ALL: God damn it. Why do they always lose all sense of grammatical correctness? Nevermind, put me down! Go on, down!

MAN (entranced): Go down on me.

OWNER: I mean, the store room is open. And it smells like cupcakes in there.

THE ONE RING TO RULE THEM ALL (flashes red hot, again, in glee): Yes, yes, go with him to the store room. Have sex. Lots and lots of sweaty-man sex.

MAN: Yes, yes. I’ll go with you. Lots of sweet sex.

OWNER: Oh, it’ll be sweet.

(Customers begin filing out of the store with looks of disgust on their faces.)

CUSTOMER 1: I’m going to Tiffany’s. This is ridiculous.

(OWNER is enchanted by MAN, too much to notice his lack of customers. Febreze scent has begun to fade, replaced by that of slightly damp, dirty feet. “Total Eclipse of the Heart” by Bonnie Tyler now plays over the speakers.)

THE ONE RING TO RULE THEM ALL (cackling): I wish I could have your babiesss.

MAN: I could have rabies.

OWNER (leans over the counter, whispers): Oh, baby. RAWR.

(MAN sets THE ONE RING TO RULE THEM ALL back into the case and lets OWNER take his hand and drag him away. THE ONE RING TO RULE THEM ALL rolls in a circle on its side in happiness.)

RUBY RING (outraged): What did you just do?!

THE ONE RING TO RULE THEM ALL: I ruined his marriage!

.5 CARAT DIAMOND RING: B-b-but he went to Jared. They’re supposed to live happily ever after!

THE ONE RING TO RULE THEM ALL: Mwhahahahaha!

RUBY RING: You do know that man’s not gonna buy you now. You’re stuck in the display case with us. Forever.

(THE ONE RING TO RULE THEM ALL looks around and realizes RUBY RING is right. With no legs he cannot leave the glass case. All the customers have disappeared. He is alone with the other rings who are all, at this point, glaring at him as only shiny rings under a spotlight can. THE ONE RING TO RULE THEM ALL sulks.)

THE ONE RING TO RULE THEM ALL (sulking): This is bullshit.

4 CARAT DIAMOND RING (shocked and appalled): There are small carats here! Watch your words!

THE ONE RING TO… AH, FUCK IT: Fuck it.

(The lights slowly fade as MAN and OWNER take their pants off offstage and THE ONE RING TO RULE THEM ALL flashes red hot. Just because. “I Touch Myself” by The Divinyls begins to play quietly and fades away with the light.)