For this month's feature, we are thrilled to spotlight the work of the talented poet Goodnight_Saigon. Please do visit their profile to check out more of their fantastic works. 

The Ballad of Mad Maggie

There are some who say that the break of day

Brings with it a sort of respite,

From the things in the snow that the locals know

Like to stalk in the dead of the night.

Those same ones tell of a demon of Hell

Who drowns its unfortunate prey;

And I saw her at dawn by the River Yukon,

That Mad Ol' Maggie McCrae.

Now the winter that year was the coldest I fear that Dawson ever did see.

It was sixty below, and the moon's silv'ry glow threw light upon tree after tree.

Myself, I holed up, with my flask and my cup, as the chill wind howled and moaned;

Warm in my nest for a long winter's rest while the cabin walls shuddered and groaned.

Though the heart of the fire was one to admire as the storm whipped right over the peaks,

The flakes were nonstop, they continued to drop many metres in those lonely weeks.

For supplies, I was set, but broke out in cold sweat as cabin fever soon took hold;

The kind that unwinds the string of men's minds, and mimics the spell of the gold.

Have you ever been caught by a feeling of rot? A physical sickness of soul?

When your spirit's depressed because in your chest, all that's there is a black, yawing hole.

You feel that you're numb, that your heart's been struck dumb, that you're trapped within your own skin,

As the aura of gloom keeps you locked in its tomb, and dire desperation creeps in.

When all that is heard is the roaring blizzard, have you ever felt stuck in your head?

With the queer Northern Lights on those long Polar Nights filling your belly with dread.

There are tales on the trails of those with the ails; I know I ain't the first one,

And I won't be the last to consider a blast from the welcoming mouth of a gun.

So before I went mad, I got myself clad in the heavy, thick furs of the North,

And I harnessed the hounds and I did a few rounds, before boldly I started forth.

Oh, the freedom I felt! as my fever did melt while the stars overhead scattered dust,

And I urged the dogs on till the first streak of dawn just to sate my insane wanderlust.

On raw Arctic nights, your face the wind bites, till almost you'd think you were dead,

And it's cold as the grave, and the Devil will rave, "Your lifeline hangs by a thread!"

But the Devil won't go out at night in the snow, when the real horrors come out to play;

For some of them roam, and call the woods home, and one is Mad Maggie McCrae.

On the Waterfront Trail, many tell of a wail that sometimes you think you might hear.

You may pray to your God that the cry was a fraud, but the truth is Ol' Maggie is near.

She'll be waiting for you, as fear strikes you through, though you'll fight with your brains and your brawn,

But your fate is the same, whatever your name, she'll plunge you into the Yukon.

What or who is she? A woman or banshee? Or perhaps some vile apparition?

Though that is what's thought, in fact she is not, she's a fiery Scot on a mission.

Maggie was born like a poisonous thorn in the side of a sweet rose's stem;

Her family was callous, gave not love but cruel malice, and ostracized her from all them.

So at a young age, she fled from her cage, and bought tickets West with her beauty;

But now that it's faded and her mind has degraded, she loves only her "sacred duty."

To create the dark spectres of poor, old prospectors who travelled her trails long ago;

She holds them down, and watches them drown, just like her kin in Glasgow.

But thoughts such as these, and their signs of unease, were admittedly far from my mind.

In the crisp, twilit air, I had not a care, simply glad to not be confined.

That was until with a sudden, grim thrill, I heard an odd echoing cry;

It wasn't a bird, or like nothing I'd heard: a shrill shriek that said danger was nigh.

While we mushed o'er the trail, the dogs tried to turn tail, their eyes rolling madly with fright,

And as we rounded a bend, I tumbled from the sled, left for dead in the dark of the night.

How long I laid in the snow and prayed, I know not while I regained my breath,

But my heart froze with fear as footsteps crunched near and I stared up at the pale face of Death.

I thought I was dreaming, or perhaps the moon's gleaming was playing its tricks from the skies;

She was cloaked in the dark with insanity's spark burning a hole in her eyes.

Though I lived to tell of the woman from Hell, and how I faced terror that day,

The others just laughed, calling me daft, but I swear it was Maggie McCrae.

She latched onto my arm while I screamed in alarm, fighting with tooth and with nail,

And she let out a growl, her breath rotted and foul, as I struggled to no great avail.

I was pulled to the river, and with a strange sort of shiver, she dragged me out into the center,

And she pulled from her hip, a miner's ice pick, and the ice the sharp end did enter.

Chips flew from the ground with a shattering sound, as she began to make a large crater,

And I had not the strength to move more than a length away from hole and its maker.

Now you'll have to remember, waters froze in November, so the ice is nice and thick,

But it didn't take long, she was savagely strong, and the river could be seen, running quick.

Her frostbitten skin stretched wide in a grin, and I realized she'd have me drowned;

I thought, "Now, is my chance!" and without backward glance, I tackled her down to the ground.

We rolled in the snow, dealing blow after blow, as I fought like a fiend for my life,

And she twisted and squirmed, like a monstrous worm, while I wished for my steel hunting knife.

But then with a grunt and with force that was blunt, I shoved her, a good, solid throw,

And she fell through the crack, like a dense gunny sack, into the river below.

Now, the water is swift with a powerful drift, and the bottom is jagged and craggy;

The sun rose with the dawn, but the River Yukon had swallowed up Mad Ol' Maggie.

When I got back to town, I was met with a frown: no one believed my story;

I was shocked and dismayed because everyone said it was one made up for the glory.

They scoffed, but I know, not to mush through the snow, when the moon is especially bright,

'Cause sometimes I swear that in the chill air, I can still hear her wail in the night...

There are some who say that the break of day

Brings with it a sort of respite,

From the things in the snow that the locals know

Like to stalk in the dead of the night.

Those same ones tell of a demon of Hell

Who drowns its unfortunate prey;

And I saw her at dawn by the River Yukon,

That Mad Ol' Maggie McCrae.