July 26 Verseweavers Virtual Reading!

 

I'm happy to be among the prize-winning poets at the Verseweavers virtual reading on Tuesday, July 26 at 7 pm! Please join us by registering here.

Knock Knock

 

The moment I've waiting for: My Bluebird uniform has arrived, and I can't wait to wear it to school, smiling, with my two front teeth missing. 

The only hitch is Bluebirds have to go door to door selling candy, too. I like eating it (especially the mints), but selling it, no thank you.

My family comes to the rescue. My soft-hearted dad takes the candy to the office and sells it to his workmates. Then my grandmother, who has a sweet tooth, buys several boxes for herself and stacks them on top of her refrigerator where they'll be close at hand.

Today, in 2022, I'm faced with trying to meet another selling quota. Not candy this time, but poetry. I have two new books this year, and my publishers, understandably, would like me to promote them.

So consider this post a light knock on your door. My newest chapbook, Not Me: Poems About Other Women, is available for preorder until August 26 and can be ordered here. 

My award-winning chapbook, Of the Forest, was also released in February and can be ordered here. 

Here's some praise for both books:

Not Me: Poems About Other Women

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.

Of the Forest

Though she tells us this is a 'simple suburban story,' every poem in this collection is a jewel, obscured by a diaphanous curtain of imagination, beckoning us to look behind. –Judith Armatta, author of Twilight of Impunity.

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

Some Thoughts on a Sunless Spring

 

Here's a scribble from my journal:

Who knows when the sun will shine again so

we can sit once more beneath the dogwood tree.

 

Right now its branches are in full bloom,

 

with petals not white or yellow or milk or cream –

they’re simply themselves

 

in spite of our steadfast rain

and the sudden April snow

 

that made the silken heads

of the proud red tulips bow.

I shared this freewrite with my adult students a few weeks ago, and they kindly shared their writing, too. Our congenial exchange brightened the sky inside my mind.

A Hastily Written Tribute to a Master

At the Oregon Shakespeare Festival, circa 1979

Happy Birthday, William!

Or may I call you Will after

all this time? I've never

cared if you were squat or tall,

a glovemaker or an errant spouse ever

since I joined, at age 10,

the giddy band of fans who

for centuries have frolicked in the woods

where your fairies, queens and shepherds

plot and toil and kiss. Again and again we slip 

our feet into the shoes of your thwarted 

lovers and velvet-lined villains. We revel 

in the snap and sting of Beatrice's wit

and the fire and ice of Hamlet's

loneliness. And on our tongues, your 

phrases perpetually dance --

In my heart of hearts

Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow --

as familiar as lawn, as jay, as 

sun, with the beat of each line moving us 

forward, calling us to create, whether

in ink or on this earth (this precious stone

set on the silver sea) our own version of

a brave new world.