Not Me – My New Poetry Collection

 

I'm thrilled to announce my newest poetry collection, Not Me: Poems About Other Women, is now available for preorder from Finishing Line Press. The book captures a chorus of women's voices, including Emily Dickinson, a mermaid, a kidnapped heiress, and Carabosse (Sleeping Beauty's nemesis).

Advance praise:

"Through a prism of voices, both real and imaginary, we gain new understanding of women's lives in a world that is not always made for them. At once subversive and strong, Ferguson's imaginative language both heightens and deepens our awareness of ourselves and others." –Diane Averill, author of Beautiful Obstacles.

I couldn't have written this book without all the amazing women in my life, from my mother and grandmothers to the members of my former writing group and my creative writing students, past and present. 

You can click here to order Not Me: Poems About Other Women.

Dutch Charm

My oldest brother once went on a European tour with his high school band. When he came home, he brought me a tiny Dutch shoe, which I then wore on a silver chain throughout my own high school days.

A  year or two after that trip, my brother brought home a dog. 

She was a Keeshond, a breed that originated in Holland.  

In the brief time she lived with us, I took her for a few walks and knelt by her and tried to comb her long gray fur. I was about fourteen and skinny and clenched my teeth in my sleep. Beside me, she felt like a warm, breathing rock.

Here's a poem about her from my chapbook Of the Forest.*

Walking My Brother’s Dog

  

We were different—

she was Dutch and

I was not—

but we had the same

thick, quiet hair

and eyes that watched.

 

She was strange,

my mother said,

from a place where girls

doused their skin

with perfume

in lieu of bathing.

But I liked to walk

up our curving suburban street

with her. I was a pale

brittle cookie with

cold hands.

She was dark, warm,

substantial,

a steady, silent bear.

 

Who would have guessed

she could move so fast—

one day she sprang forward

and was gone.

 

I stayed on,

preferring to leave

more gradually,

pocketing a handkerchief one year,

sneaking out a slipper the next,

followed by a knitted coin purse,

a pair of silver earrings, a box of

blank note cards, a palm-size radio,

and a felt-tip pen. The last things

I took before I left for good

were a drop of blood

and a sewing kit.

By then I had forgotten

her name but had found

my own weight.

 *This poem was originally published by Verseweavers, with the title "Foreign Exhcange."

Of the Forest was the second place winner of The Poetry Box Chapbook Prize, 2021.

June 2, 1995

 

I was riding my bike to the library yesterday (with trucks and buses rumbling past) when I thought of this:

27 years 

since my father 

died – still, if 

I should live 

another 27 –

or even more! –

I’ll never be

a fatherless

daughter