Honorable Mention : 2008 Utmost Christian Poetry Contest $100
About this Christian Poet:
Judith Frost is a wife and mother of one (gifted!) teenage daughter, living in Montreal, Quebec. Along with poetry, Judith works at learning the craft of children's writing, pieces quilts (slowly), and enjoys hosting a group for young moms. Her work has appeared in Penwood Review, Prairie Messenger, and online at Utmost Christian Writers.
About this Poem:
I love the country, but I live in the suburbs. Still, I spend a lot of time in the garden, on my backyard swing, walkng in the park or by the river. (I do work once in a while!) One day I was pondering what difference it makes if I am staring up at concrete and glass and brick or at blue mountains, fields of waving grass, the architecture of a tree? How does it affect the poetry I write, what is birthed in me? Cities can be exciting, but Eden was a garden where God walked.
Oh, Poet, where do you live?
Do steel and metal, rough granite, define
your sound, snag the hard edges of your lines?
Do you sharpen your skill on wire fences?
grind your words on Sumatran
Dark roast at Starbucks, allow the occasional
rains to dampen the cynical grounds?
As you thread your way through traffic do phrases
trip on jutting asphalt? break off in chunks of crumbling
overpass cement that fall with a noise that wakes the fear in you?
What would happen if you were to pick up the words
that hover like an aura, a second skin, like armour,
carry them gently out into a place of trees and water, of farmer’s fields?
What if you sat on a large stone for many days, drank from
the well, stared up at mountains, down at the ribbon of a grass-
snake, the song sparrow, drops of dew?
What if you were to fall fallow on the ground, face-down,
lay your ear to the earth; listen for the movement of silent things making
in-roads as your fingers grew down to touch
glistening coils of the earthworm, the aorta,
carrying nutrients, oxygen to the pictures flowing
plumping them up, like feathery down, like water?
What if, when you had lain there for a week, an hour, a day,
you planted a seed, somewhere hidden, bent your ear inward to watch;
waited for the ground to quake and split, thrusting aside a dry husk
for that newly risen word
Copyright ©2008 by Judith Frost