Three Poems: One Long, Completely Revised, And Two Barely Changed, Thanks Kris Kristofferson!

The Cover of the Unrevised Book: Out of Publication

I have removed the footnotes as I revise Atheists and Empty Spaces though one reader, perhaps my most critical, commented that the footnotes were often more interesting than the poems. One footnote that I hesitate to leave out is the reason for the composition of Big Maggie McClain because it is so interesting and involves a famous person. You see, one day in the summer of 1981 or '82, my friend Glenn Hicklin and I had finished hauling hay early in the afternoon, and we drove down to our favorite swimming hole The Brown Hole on Turkey Creek about two miles down from the old Rufus Mullins place. We were swimming, jumping off the rope swing, and just generally cooling off when three guys rode up on horses. We immediately recognized Tony Joe White because we knew him fairly well from seeing him around this swimming hole and up the creek at the Pour Off swimming hole. In fact, we had seen him quite a few times that summer because he was apparently taking a long break from the music business, but we didn't really recognize the other two guys. They got off their horses and walked down to a big rock that stood about four feet above the water hole and sat down. All three of them were drinking whisky from a shared bottle, and they started asking us to do tricks from the rope like back flips, front flips, and other things, so we obliged and did the best we could to perform every trick they asked. We were pretty good at the rope tricks, and they laughed and asked about a lot of things about how we got there, and why nobody else was there, just general stuff. Anyway, they stayed for about 2 1/2 hours or so, most of the rest of the afternoon. Glenn and I thought nothing of the visit with the three fellers and went on home shortly after they left. Then, one night about a month later, we were watching TV late at night and some movie came on with Kris Kristofferson in it. I am thinking it was Convoy, but it could have been A Star Is Born or Heaven's Gate, and we look at each other and go, "Holy shit! That was Kris Kristofferson." Yes, sir and ma'am! We had spent the afternoon with Kris Kristofferson, Tony Joe White, and, I only found out much later, a session drummer for Tony Joe and Kris named Sammy Lee Creason. Anyway, years later, I thought, "What if Kris Kristofferson had other reasons for being down on Turkey Creek besides hanging out with Tony Joe White, and the story of Big Maggie McClain was born.

I have rewritten this poem many times because I started it, got tired of it, and started it all over again. The version currently in unrevised Atheists and Empty Spaces even had some lines about the frustrations. I have taken them out this time. Well, too much explaining here? On with the poems! ENJOY!

Big Maggie McClain

Part One. What Most Don’t Know

Just off the crest of Pilcher Ridge,

Half a mile from the Steffen bridge,

On northern slopes swaddled in moss

And dead leaves that the west winds toss

Into the whispers of the valley,

No traveler would ever dally

Near a stone house cloaked in ivy,

Nor any person with half a brain

Hoped to cross Big Maggie McClain.

Much was said but little known

About this waif who lived alone

And rarely strayed into the light

And must have done her chores by night.

But, really, who’s around to see

An eremite’s society?

Who dare disturb her privacy?

No man would penetrate her space

Such sorrow hung about the place.

Know her? No! But most folks knew

That near her house the black crows flew

In riotous murders of cackling caws,

Callous barks, and carping guffaws

Until a gunshot shushed their cries

And shooed the birds to calmer skies.

But shotgun blasts, like cornfield spies,

Don’t keep the crows from coming back

And filling the air with their quibbling black.

In her front yard, some cherry trees,

Twisted in a tornadic breeze,

Groped like hands escaping graves

Or bandaged arms of Pharoah’s slaves

Begging mercy of merciless skies…

Or so it seemed to prying eyes

Whose clueless views were mostly lies

Sussing her eccentric ways

With nothing but an ignorant gaze.

But some do know, and I am one

Who learned a bit of what she’d done

And why she came to stack her stones.

Since she can’t know what I now tell,

I’ll feel no need to argue well

Nor will I stop to pick at bones.

Part II. How I Came to Know

It’s true Big Maggie’s place was cursed.

For rousing life, it was the worst.

It lay beneath a northern slope

Where only moss and briars cope.

All winter long, it froze in shade.

All summer long, the sunlight frayed

To razor heat along a blade,

Clipping the fruits she tried to grow

And withering sprouts in every row.

But Maggie’s place was on a line

Between the Wilson house and mine,

And every youth and all his pals

Were spellbound by the Wilson gals.

Like a sailor, I was drawn

To these sirens with cheeks like dawn,

Bright eyes that sparkled in the sun,

Full lips that smiled sensual dreams,

And breasts that drew men’s breath in teams.

Needless to say, their mermaid song

Filled up my ears and pulled me strong,

Like any deckhand with a torch,

To crash upon the Wilson’s porch.

Since more than time may have been lost

If I had veered instead of crossed

Big Maggie’s land up near her house,

I filled my yearning soul with grit

And tiptoed by right next to it.

A month or two, I sidled by

With both my feet ready to fly

If I chanced on what most I feared,

That is, if Maggie’s face appeared.

Indeed, it did. I saw her twice,

And both those times she called out nice

And offered me sweet tea with ice

Which I refused without one word

Because of all the lies I’d heard.

Big Maggie was not large at all.

In fact, her frame was firm but small,

And she filled out her blouse and jeans

Like an athlete in her teens.

Her suntanned brow wrinkled with care

And gray streaks tinted her brown hair,

But I perceived deep sorrow there

In her worn smile and distant eyes,

And this caused me to realize

That this sad woman meant no harm

To any life form on this farm,

Nor any creature in the air,

Nor any being anywhere,

But she had chosen this cursed hole

Because it mirrored her own soul,

And then she slowly lost control.

She let that place express her pride

And show the pain she felt inside.

I saw her twice and not again.

I never asked where she had been.

I never spoke; she called to me

And I behaved quite cowardly.

Though other people thought me brave,

A hero gives more than a wave,

And now Big Maggie’s in her grave.

Still, I have much that I can share

Since I met Little Maggie there,

And we became, well, not quite friends,

But close enough to make amends.

For my acting the timid mouse,

I offered to help clean the house,

And what we found is quite the tell

And explains Big Maggie well.

Part Three: Letters in the Attic

In Maggie’s attic, fastened tight

Were chests of photos, black and white,

Handwritten letters marked in red,

And lines of verse, and one that said,“Freedom is just another word

For nothing left to lose.” We’d heard

Those lyrics somewhere. It occurred

To us both, and who could blame us?

For Maggie’s beau was someone famous.

We scanned the letters left to right,

Found “help me make it through the night,”

And “one more time, for the good times,”

And other common ballad rhymes.

Most of them told of love and hurt,

Beers for a meal and for dessert,

Finding the cleanest dirty shirt,

And for her surcease of sorrow,

“Let the devil take tomorrow.”

It’s hard to say what we did next,

Reading through familiar text,

But then we found a letter never sent,

And you may be surprised at how it went.

“Dear KK,

When we were broke in Baton Rouge

Waiting to hop on a train,

I was feeling about as worn out as my jeans.

That night, you thumbed a driver down

Just before the rain

And he drove us all the way to New Orleans.

I pulled my Seydal out of a dirty red bandanna

And played it soft while you moaned out the blues.

The windshield wipers slapped in time

And I held your hand in mine,

And we played every song that trucker knew.

We hitchhiked from Kentucky to the California coast

Sharing every secret of our souls.

Though all kinds of weather,

Through everything we did,

I did my best to keep you from the cold.

Then, one day near Salinas, you softly slipped away.

I was looking for a home

Because I had to find one.

My belly was getting bigger every single day,

And I felt a body growing inside of mine.

Now, she’s two years old,

And we ‘re both doing fine--

And I feel like tomorrow,

You’ll be coming back our way.

I know it’s just a matter of time.

Love Always, For the Good Times, Maggie McClain.”

Part Four: From the End a New Beginning

And that is the end of this story,

At least all that I have to tell

But, dear reader, please do not worry,

Though I never knew Maggie that well,

I’m aware of her more famous lover

And I think that it’s quite clear to see

That her letter’s a pretty good cover

Of a song about Bobbie Mcgee,

And whether she’s Bobbie or loved him,

That song has a life of its own,

And whatever happened between them

Caused Maggie to live all alone…

Just off the crest of Pilcher Ridge,

Half a mile from Steffen bridge,

On northern slopes swaddled in moss

And dead leaves that the west winds toss

Into the whispers of the valley.

The next two poems are poems that you may remember and recognize easily. They have hardly been changed at all.

Cupid Warns Psyche about Her Sisters

Here I am, now.

Close your eyes.

Put out your lamp.

Feel my zephyr breath.

I cannot be here.

I must go,

But do not soothe

Your sisters’ woe.

Perfect love, oh, Psyche!

Cannot dwell

In the bitter light

Of Envy and Suspicion.

The Day Rain Filled All Empty Spaces

The thunder drums.

The raindrops tinkle.

From brim of hat

To boot, they sprinkle.

The Earth transpires.

Dust becomes mud.

“Ssshhh!” Go bald tires

On a rutted road flood.

It taps on tin roofs

And pecks at glass windows

Like tiny horse hooves

Each gust that the wind blows.

A mist-forming breeze

Refracts farmhouse light

And glisters in trees

As it flows through the night.

The drops fall where they may

In all good or bad places

But regret that one day

They filled all empty spaces.