Adrea Stojilkov in “Life (and) death in “Harry Potter”: The Immortality of Life and Soul, 2015, surveys critical case study of popular culture of fantasy fiction novelistic tradition whilst examining the titular heroic protagonist archetypal fictitious character of Harry Potter. Voicing Harry to be the harbinger of loving survivor heroism for the witchcraft and wizardry, the stream of consciousness authorial narrative trope within the realm of imaginative essayist, endows the heir of the Potter to be temptress of the soul. As journalistic eucharist eschatoglogical revelation of the hermeneutic tradition is radicalizing springing forth to the foray of theological and metaphysical implications. For instance, “Basilisk venom and fiendfyre” are fundamentally instrumental unicorn of blood elixirs of the spiritual battles raged in destruction of animosity harboured by manipulative schemers such as ripped burdened souls of ghoulie-phantom spectre-like figures of transgression.  

After all the boarding school detective speculative gothic romance adventure fantasy fiction is hailed as superheroic agency of the witchcraft cult textual performativity of immersive theatricality through visceral evocation of experiential spectatorial gaze and/or phenomenal aurality of being “The Chosen One”, who thwarted Dark Lord Voldemort. However, hectic ordeal of seven books and herculean odyssey of seven corresponding years transcend as a triumphant victory over the diabolical agency of devilry. Being doppelganger Harry Potter resurrects the aural spectrality of Voldemort’s redemptive quest for salvation and atonement by the transfiguration of humane virtues. Stone-heartedness of sadomasochistic ambitious antagonist Voldemort is surrealistically patronizing Potter-esque charisma in Rowling’s gothic masterpiece, since the former vouchsafes earthbound enchantment spirit for the anticipatory fear of deathliness. 

In Life (and) death in “Harry Potter”: The Immortality of Life and Soul, Andrea Stojilkov (pg. 8) cites Harry and Dumbledore’s utopic space time travel through psychic farsightedness, then and there, Rowling herself states through Dumbledore’s words that Harry’s death is not definite. Furthermore, the white, misty King’s Cross seems too desolate for Heaven, believed to be inhabited by the souls of good individuals, God and angels, a place of fellowship. To my intuitive argument, Harry’s phoenix-like resurrected reawakening of the afterlife healing journey is transformatively rewarding by Dumbledore’s sacrificial boon’s forces. Despite the withered hand being healed, however, the crookedness of nose and piercing blue eyes of a half moon spectacles do not vanish in Dumbledore’s fate. Since then, the limbo child-leaving Voldemort inverted serpent soul whimpering of master theologian metaphysician sacrificial vouchsafing safeguards and shields Harry with immaculate vision and disappearance of lightning scar. Herein, Dumbledore’s lamb-like lamp sheds light by the glory of magical realism as envisioned by King’s Cross. 

However, essay writer’s conjuration of Harry’s admissibility through Barzakh ushers wholesome “wh(s) on earth” and “good heaven’s sake” subliminal textuality of Quranic allusion. Herein real and imaginary, life and death, spirituality and materiality, neither existent nor non existent, neither negated nor affirmed facsimile world; Harry’s metaphysical quest of pilgrimage in spirituality encounters phoenix-fawkes spirited guardian angel Dumbledore—the custodian and protector of souls; because of flesh and blood material bodied souls offered by veil or barrier “body can see anything and everything from everywhere everytime”. Life (and) death in “Harry Potter”: The Immortality of Life and Soul, Andrea Stojilkov (pg. 10) 

Because of ascetic and moralistic writers disposition of austerity and graveness, the literary critic Margarita Carretero Gonzalez in “The Lord of the Rings: a myth for the modern Englishmen” ( 1998)declares fantasy fiction and imaginative literature to be a depopularizing paperback bestsellers genre tradition amongst the Spaniards. Nonetheless, plurilingualism of other European worlds gracefully occasioned to wholeheartedly embrace translation of Tolkien such as Sweden and Denmark. This might be posited that perhaps beyond multilingualism, plurilingualism provided dynamic and interconnected nature of language repertoire, advancing code switching and cross-linguistic influences to appreciate romantic fairy-story mythlore of epic romance. 

Gonzalez (1998, p. 2) went on to argue that the Anglo-Saxon period, Victorian medievalism, idealization of the Middle Ages predominantly depicting spatiotemporality of the hobbits and the Shires to be the character and culture of the English way of life and the English rural countryside, might have been intriguing the denizens and locales of English native soil and clime. These Britishers have felt the urgency for environmental stewardship  and climate change campaigns due to the progressive disappearance of England’s natural environment. This paving of nationalistic internationalization predominantly springs forth in Northern European regions more than the Southern European regions. Furthermore affinity to the sagas in the North Atlantic peoples—— the Scandinavians and their heirs in Iceland, Greenland and England extrapolates critical commentary of Georgiana St. Clair in “‘The Lord of the Rings’ as a Saga” (1979). Thus facilitates acculturation of hybridized and diversified generic terms of fairy-story, epic, novel and romance.      

Much like J K Rowling’s Harry Potter series heroic idol of feminism Hermione, J R R Tolkien’s Eowyn is a star studded champion in advocacy of women’s emancipation and female empowerment. Eowyn, House of Eorl, a woman with a strong, stern and steel personality, ride and wield blade and does not fear pain or death resembles Hermoine’s association in the company of Ron and Harry in slaying Basilisk with the sword of Gryffindor. Both J K Rowling and J R R Tolkien are acquitted from misogyny and sexism after this literature review, thus challenging stereotypical gendered expectations of hackneyed microcosms. After all these heroines of chivalry crucially manifest themselves as iron ladies and shield maidens in redeeming their male counterparts to be defenders and protectors of life.  

If narrative history of chronicle like recording of events would postulate a saga of recovery, escape, consolation, that then J K Rowling’s Harry Potter sagas and J R R Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings trilogy emanate characteristic quintessential features of eucatastrophe in the inner consistency of reality and/ or the willing suspension of disbelief. In substantiation of this internally consistent fictional world, Georgiana St. Clair in “‘The Lord of the Rings’ as a Saga” (1979) states that, “These critics see in the Grey Havens the Christian Heavenly City: they see the ending as the joyful ascension, without death, of the heroes into heaven. However, in “The Hobbit-Forming World of J. R .R. Tolkien,” Henry Resnik reports that Tolkien’s long acquaintance with Norse and Germanic myths inspired the chillier, more menacing landscapes of middle-earth, and he makes no secret of having deliberately shaped the two major interests of his life—- rural England and the northern myths—— to his own literary purposes. In The Lord of the Rings Tolkien says, I have tried to modernize the myths and make them credible.” Consequently, if the Grey Havens is to be associated with Valhalla rather than the Christian Heaven, then the ending must reflect that interpretation. The Valkyries take the heroes from this life to Valhalla, to a magnificent banquet, sports, and fighting. But Valhalla is not an eternal refuge, only a waiting place until that final confrontation between good and evil. In this final battle, the Gods and the heroes will fight valiantly, but they will fall. The joy of Valhalla is the promise of one more combat, not the infinite gloria of Christian salvation and everlasting life. The voyage to the Grey Havens is not a eucatastrophic event.” 

Following this un eucatastrophic trajectory and after digression from Hans Christian Andersen and Dostoevksy a full fledged paper authorship is a swashbuckler challenging spectacle, whilst considering the limitations of JStor resources free accessibility. For instance, “The Lord of the Rings”: The Novel as Traditional Romance” by George H. Thomson is the least of the reading material I wish to endorse for citation. However, my two days work of independent scholarly research would proffer a standing ovation and libation tribute to the comparative literature and cultural studies curricula in the context and worldview of Rowling and Tolkien. Imagining a fiction writing master class workshop with J K Rowling positing the imperative pronouncement of poetic diction and I am delighted to craft a transliteration of a feast of the middle earth home: “Far Over the Misty Mountains Cold”. Author of the modern century and the modern medievalist delves into the subliminal aura of the readers with treasure trove of pale enchanted and long-forgotten gold.

First Grade Music Class – Is there Poetry Here?

A class of first graders sway and rock.

Beating rhythm sticks to a sweet children’s-tune,

while a happy cartoon raccoon bops from beat to beat.

Using the Prometheus-unbound board.

We learn about music together;

Knocking out together the rhythmic bones of music.

I-teacher joyfully shows out: bobbing, swaying, smiling, watching.

Showing each child how to enjoy, especially the boys.

“This is how it is done. You can do this too. It’s fun.

C’mon it’s a joy. Do this with me kids.”

You are under my care: watch, learn, act, enjoy, bloom.

You are safe in my classroom.

Skinny Latino girl with a yellow bow in her long hair.

Look at her sway and speak to herself, hitting her sticks.

She smiles, with happiness, enjoying within herself and with her class.

A tune so happy and carefree I-teacher feels young.

Little Latino girl, hair style from 25 years ago, or from the South.

Long, long hair, lovingly combed and curled here and there.

A bright yellow ribbon adorning her luxuriant hair.

Her mother, her grandmother love this girl and make her beautiful for school.

They style her hair in a traditional way, not realizing the differences.

I-teacher spot it, smiles, she is loved, tenderly so.

And those who love her, make her pretty in a style from decades ago.

My dear sweet child, lovingly sent to school.

by a mother and grandmother who work in town.

Will you be safe from the hate?

The hate that spreads like exploded napalm.

Will the fire of racism come for you?

Please learn to dance and to love, not to fear and hide.

Stay in my class my sweet child, under my protection.

No one will take you while you are in my realm and vision.

Once I-teacher overheard one Latino middle-schooler say to another,

“Ice is going to take you away bro.” A prophetic tease.

Some truth, some meanness, some fear.

I’m searching for the poetry here.

I see the singing, swaying, stick-tapping girl.

Learning musical rhythm joyfully.

Her out-dated hair style topped with a shining yellow bouncing bow.

Such a cute, happy gift to the world – a heart with a glow.

And the haters, the thugs, their strengthening apparatus’.

Mug like professional wrestlers to the cameras.

Promising to remove this child and others.

Today, under my care and protection

My innocent children learn about music and rhythm,

While, out there, hate mobilizes against them.

Save Mankind

Man seeks a savior

He goes about it using it vigor

He is aware of the rigor

Man looks at the environment

He figures the movement

He ensures it will last all moments

But:

Man discovers he’s wrong

He thinks of the way out through his song

He works out his strong

Man searches for riches

He goes all out for the fishes

He thinks that they will meet his very wishes

But:

Man is dissatisfied

He is worried he is not gratified

He believes his agenda will be clarified.

Man goes after wellness

He seeks to work its happiness

He feels that’s his essence

But:

Man realizes he’s in a vicious circle

He devises the way-out of the ridicule

He’s certain his IQ would bring the driving vehicle

Man seeks a life companion

He searches in passion

He’s sure this won’t take him to oblivion

But:

Man is failing over a time-a hundredth

He sees himself being swallowed up by the earth

He makes his priority death

This time…

Man seeks his kind

He engages with a tough find

He succeeds on the note: “Save Mankind”

God

Maybe some people. Just weren’t meant. To know God. All the years.     All gone to waste.    The centuries spent searching.      The

fireball fights.      The blood spilling onto the crimson tiles.     Is this a

meaningless fight?       We fight for love, we fight against God.      Perhaps this

is what we were meant to do.      Not worship Him.    Fear him.  

 How can a horrible earth not be born from a monster?     Is beauty a trap?  

 Meant to pacify the tormentor? You know what they say.  A person in

jail who never realizes they are in jail.    Will stay in jail forever.   Was it so easy?

We can’t be all alone in this universe.     They recite love as proof of God.    

  But is love a curse or a blessing?   Happiness?       One of those

things they give, like rations?         All the curses disguised as gifts? To

keep you from ever wanting to leave?  But then why do people want?

 To leave?

Lilies

In the car, flying on cruise control,

on this desolate stretch between anything,

everything a dizzy blur, the rush,

the rush, a violence to the senses,

a glimpse of swift efflorescence,

I know each petal is there,

placed as it should be, precariously

riding the hump of the ditch between

vast expanses of alfalfa and asphalt,

these daylily hobos, fast, vivid saffron,

tangled with flushed morning glories,

violet clover, pale blue chicory,

the eyes of tow-headed children,

and elegant, white Queen Anne’s lace –

when you break a stem, there’s

a sharp, unexpected scent of wild carrot.

In this fugacious instant,

somehow I know, I know these lilies

want my adoration, calling me,

stamens vibrating in long throats,

quite willing to share their joy.

Why don’t I turn around,

turn off the motor and

listen for just a little while,

their troupe crooning hue at the sky?

I’ll lie alongside them in soft

wheatgrass, and together we’ll  

bide the gentler sounds of night.

Which destinations shall I neglect,

vague acquaintances or these dear chums?

When I think of them, alone, untended,

I want to acquiesce, relinquish

any passion to a high shelf

for someone much younger to find.

I can’t help this weird, bygone empathy,

doting, hoary around the fringes:

when the rain comes, cold and rigid,

will I fret over these blossoms,

lips pursed, pouting for lack of sun?

When the apprehension of winter comes,

inevitably comes in frost then ice,

will I mourn these lilies,

will I feel their dread,

will I rush to my beloved?

In the Snow

I regret neglecting

The egrets last summer

Mindlessly oblivious to

White against emerald

Viridian chartreuse

Stepping shyly in the marsh

And just yesterday

Snowing and snowing

I wish I’d spent

An afternoon peering

Through the window

(Debussy in my ears no

A Chopin Mazurka)

Blue-gray atmosphere

Obscurity on the horizon

A sky brimming with

Falling singularities more

Crystals than space between

I knew this beauty

Was infinitely transient

Considerably more pertinent

Than fabricating drudgery

My bloated memoranda

Tell me tell me

(I do not insist

A modest desire

A desperation nevertheless)

There must be a place

Where I might see

Egrets taking flight

In the snow

Mark Young has a new book, Some Unrecorded Voyages of Vasco da Gama, which is a collection of both text & visual geographies, a number of which have appeared in Synchronized Chaos. It’s available from Lulu. The URL is https://www.lulu.com/shop/mark-young/some-unrecorded-voyages-of-vasco-da-gama/paperback/product-e748z2j.html?page=1&pageSize=4

Bird Light Day Night,

-from,

The New Springtime Journals, Prose Poems and Pictures 

(for Tara)

Rya, R-eee-ya, R-iii-ya, goes the bird and it’s night when that occurred and the bird is unseen. There are soft lights in the real reality indoors. Love and friendship also, plus literature,- stacks of books. Papers and pens. 

Before, it was morning, and the sun ascended and the earth was warm if a little damp. Reading quickly through Rimbaud’s life and times. The diviner listened to, said a bird would fly overhead. A slightly larger than normal bird. This happened. And there was a large tree and winding paths, hills that went quietly up and then standing on the summit one could see far and far,- distant buildings and more hills,- trees. I watched the thawed and therefore flowing river, and the closer I went the louder and more wonderful it was. Morning, afternoon, dusk, and night. These things and the things within them. Airplanes and clouds in the sky. Spring. The new springtime. The springtime poems from springtime journals. Messages. Letters. Many words. 

A ring. I had lost a ring. Looked for it for weeks. Then I let it go for a while. When this night arrived I sat in silence and it came to me…the ring is on a bookshelf. I didn’t know exactly where but that was the message. From spirit or from the higher self or internal knowledge or something. I got up. Turned on lights. Stood before the shelf. Saw a small box. Opened it. There was a picture of Jesus Christ and a small medallion also, and some jewellery. There, amidst all that, was the missing ring. I put it on my finger. I had tried it on at a carnival once, the night fairgrounds of electric eclectic wondrous lights, vendors, music, scents wafting through the nocturne. Distant firecrackers of the firmament. Metropolis of summer. Scenes. Life. Streets. Cars. People. So many people moving about. The vendor: ‘It fits well.’ Me: ‘Yes.’ Memory. The beloved. Brown eyes and dimples, slight blonde streaks in her dark brown hair. Lovely. She doesn’t wear earrings but has been of late,- this year. She is pretty. Naturally pretty. A good soul. Wise. Strong. Honest. Reliable. From the South. Virginia. 

We look around at the carnival night. Before and after ride buses, trains, and in a car. Fine. Summer evening. Make memories. Hold hands. Talk. You know how it goes. Everyone has a story as they say. 

Back to now: pears and strawberries. Literary biography. Dreams. Good dreams and some bad dreams. But far less bad dreams than before. Almost a whole day without writing prose poems. For reading. For finishing a book I was into. Carson McCullers. A biography. Hmm. Pastel green duvet. We share chocolate the brown haired one and I. A fan whirls. The fields are out there, to be walked in and through, tomorrow morning again. Birds. And window sills here. Silence. Glass. Fences. Cleaning things. Wondering about the future. Aruba. Planes. Places. Beaches. Pools. Short walks. Longer walks. What will be there? Pictures and poems from the parapets and by the promenades of life. hopefully. Take it easy. The world needs less ambitious people anyhow. There should be a district for daydreamers, a mountain for magic, an arena for artists, a shrine for seers, a beach for believers, an applause and clause for the apolitical, a placid pool for poets…

There is a story I wrote about a blue crocheted heart and a small metal heart was found while looking for that ring. A diviner said: ‘Someone out there can hear this message- a blue heart I am seeing. Strange. Hearts are usually red. But this is blue. That message is for someone in the collective…’

Later I’ll step outside. Maybe the night birds will be there somewhere in the distance. A-r-iy a. Ryiiia. That’s what they seem to say. Loquacious if anything. It’s spring. I guess they are taking to their friends. Everyone communicates in their own way. The birds sing those strange songs. The architect makes a rendering. The mechanic repairs the engine. The train conductor sounds a whistle. A teacher makes a rubric. The novelist, an outline first usually. The poet the poem. The mystic creates themselves a new, with God. 

——