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Gerry LaFemina

Gerry LaFemina

Gerry LaFemina’s books include 23 Below, Shattered Hours: Poems 1988-94, Zarathustra in Love, and Graffiti Heart, which received the 2001 Anthony Piccione Prize in Poetry from MAMMOTH Books. The Parakeets of Brooklyn, received the 2003 Bordighera Prize in Poetry, and was published in a bilingual English-Italian edition. LaFemina’s fiction, poetry, and essays have appeared in Colorado Review, Nimrod, Quarterly West, Connecticut Review, and in the anthology American Poetry: the Next Generation. LaFemina is currently an assistant professor and director of the Frostburg Center for Creative Writing at Frostburg State University.

Gerry's Homepage
Gerry's Listing on www.italianamericanwriters.com

Also by Gerry LaFemina

 

The Window Facing Winter

  The Window Facing WinterThe Window Facing Winter

$14.00 paper | 74 Pages
ISBN-13: 978-1-930974-37-1
Publication Date: April 2004
Buy: Amazon.com

A Green Rose Selection


“In The Window Facing Winter, the urgency of the beautiful and sometimes murderous urban landscape, set alongside the seductive, intricate oasis of the Japanese garden, renders possible a vision into 'a sliver of the absolute.' With unflinching accuracy, LaFemina delivers a sacred, if momentary, world, laying bare its essential loneliness, its obstinate beauty.”
        —Robin Behn

"Gerry LaFemina in The Window Facing Winter, an intense, intimate, and intelligent new collection of poems, is not afraid to touch and be touched by the extraordinary grit and grind of each new day and its aftermath. The startling moments of vision in these poems are as radiant, elegant, and precise as they are hard-edged—charting, as they do, the vast distances of the American landscape and the long and lonely road home. They are heartrending in their tenderness and dignity."
        -–Eric Pankey

Poem

The Domestication of Cats

The junkyard calico knows God is found
in the simple satisfaction of needs—the buffet of field mice
scattering; the shelter, say,
found in cars, in shattered windshields & rust.

Paws twitching, she rests in the sunlight puddle
warming a Pontiac’s back seat. When she scratches
nobody shoos her—

                                 And us? I’m scrounging for engine parts
for the garage’s project; my bag of wrenches clanging
like kidnapped church bells
while Alex kneels in knee-high weeds,
as if in prayer, to check out

a swatch of chrome, glowing. That calico leaps right then
through a missing window, bolting
to rub her cheek against his hand
                                                     which is empty—

which is no bigger than her head.