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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