Emily Ferrara     

                 Emily Ferrara At the Poet's House in New York City.

     The Highest Places

     Downy,
     the hip-high heads of dandelions
     nod at the field of lady’s thumbs
     that lead to a barn on the bluff.
     Above and below, the blue
     of Newfoundland
     water, sky, lupine,
     forget-me-nots,
     my son’s eyes.
     Scaffolding is in place
     for this foreshortened season.
     The island’s seabound mountains
     feed on rolling capelin,
     black and thick as oil slicks.
     Tourists flock to villages
     that list on the brink of grief
     worn inside out, bound to pride,
     a codless ocean, ghosts of the past
     and missing. And still,
     crows measure the perimeter of bays,
     spread seed across fields and cliffs.
     They nest in the highest places where
     God’s breath condenses into fog.

     Copyright 2005, Anthologized in "Rough Places Plain -     Poems of the Mountains"
     Salt Marsh Press book order form

                                                              Copyright 2007

Sample poems...


Rapture

Devoted to studying
the night sky, I peer
through a telescope, find
the comet's tail.
I try to see eternity, each star
a point of entry. I am translator
of space and time.
Do you hear?

First published in Lynx Eye


Frogs

Hundreds of them
the source of sound, risen
from the bottom of the pond.
We breathe quietly so as
not to disturb them.
You lean against a large
moss-covered rock.
I want to take you right there
against that rock
and again around the bend,
in a sun-filled clearing,
against a tree, on the
leaf laden, God laden
path, on papery birch bark,
in the mud puddle, on that
patch of melting snow.
Take or be taken.
I want to bare myself
for your pleasure. Listen,
the water comes to life! The frogs
are yearning, legs spread behind them,
their eyes just above the water.

Copyright 2004, First published in Lifeboat


Poem for Jack Spicer, Deadbeat Poet

You never found the perfect partner,
that mute, nubile eunuch
with mirrors for eyes.

So you neglected your bitter body,
perspired beer and cheap brandy,
your fingers marred by Kool stains


and truths
and lies
and half-truths.

You held court in Aquatic Park,
your calloused radio tuned to
the ball game. Your cup filled up,

with venom
and hurt
and fruitless pursuits,

incessant, inexplicable couplings--
men, women, boys--and then
your cocksure rivalries

with the likes of Ginsburg, Persky,
Duncan, Ferlinghetti. I could go on.
Shall I go on?

Copyright 2003, First published in Full Circle Journal