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Magdalene Never
Made It To The River
1.
the urge
and need
crawling naked over morning grass
seeking some relief from skin-splitting
tension
engorged
twisted like arthritic limbs of the apple
trees
full
like dark cloud growling in pre-dawn sky
fuckrutsnort
thrustfuckrutseed
dead rat
dead pig carcasses in the grove
beautiful wolf-dog
slips off through the trees
2.
night sky pushes window panes
tree limbs creak and scrape
horses snort
and shift in sucking mud
frigid breeze breathes in gloomy room
candle flame writhes quietly
veined hands reach beneath the bloated belly
skin contracts and heaves
blood flows and
suddenly new shining skin
slips like a sigh
like a snake escaping through the grass
into grandmother’s twisted fingers
she gives the thing a shake
somewhere in the darkness
an explosion of feathers
3.
barely make it there
the engine sputters
as the car crawls up childhood driveway
fog blurs the barely visible outline
of surrounding houses
fog-breath filling every empty space
misty shadows waiting patiently
the silence
broken suddenly
by frantic infant wailing
hunger cry
or pain
looking everywhere in nothing white
Where the fuck’s the baby?
then
a tiny form
gleaming wet
appears and disappears
the crying stops
ragged breathing fills the void
4.
Magdalene never made it to the river
the muddy waters of the river
its mellow voice swollen with malevolence
she must have stumbled down the darkened path
her mind a moonless place
filled with flitting shapes
and quiet lies whispering in the leaves
perhaps she heard the voices
calling faintly over the fields
Magdalene
like a mother calling home a child
at dusk on summer nights
the calls becoming urgent
MAGdalene
until panic
like the pulse of red and yellow cruiser
lights
punctuate the voices
MAGDALENE
WHERE ARE YOU
somewhere on the way she fell
and we are gathered at the river
wait beside the water
try to find an answer
for the one who won’t arrive
Fred Meissner has a few publishing credits to his name; they include:
Pierian Spring, 1984; the Alberta Poetry Yearbook, 1983, 1985, 1986, and 1988
(in which he was awarded the “Jessie Drummond Boyd Prize” and an award for “Haiku—Adult Winner”);
Online, 1987/88, 1989, 1990; Daybreak, 1985; Egorag 15, 1991; Voices from the Yellow House, 1992; and, most recently,
he read a number of his poems at the Eden Mills Fringe Festival, 2003.
Hmmm,” you might be mulling, “he’s published a few poems ages ago in periodicals no longer printed
and then pirouetted (for the sake of alliteration) out of the proverbial picture.” True, but a brief
biographical sketch might help fill in the gaps:
1980 – 1990: Graduated high school; worked as a labourer in a rubber factory; married, started a
family; read Nowlan, Purdy, Webb, Eliot’s Four Quartets, and decided he needed to go to school;
earned his B.A. (Honours English) from UofW; went to teachers college.
1991 – 2005: Taught English (and now teach Special Ed.) at EDSS; raised his family; read Kroetsch,
Borges, Ginsberg, Kerouac, and decided he needed to keep writing and to try (as cummings suggested)
“to be nobody but [him]self”; wrote a lot.
2006: Thought that he'd like to put some new stuff out there.
Email: Fred Meissner
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