Divine comedy
The full-stop has been erased
A dead end no more
Traditionally today is a day for practical jokes, the original April Fools Day
(06.04.26)
Poem 842 -Easter Sunday
No teenager’s room, the clothes
were neatly arranged, the face
cloth folded to the side –
no need for panic here.
There’s no runaway or theft,
no missing person to file,
just hope born from a stone
casually tossed away.
A quick poem at the end of a busy Easter Day.
(05.04.26)
© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Dylann Hendricks | 딜란 on Unsplash
Poem 841 – Easter Saturday
Tomb like, the chrysalis hangs
inert and stoney cold.
All breath has gone. Death’s boney
touch is resident here.
What was has gone, the door
is sealed, its full-stop placed.
What hope, that nagging whisper
of a different punctuation?
The day after the day before? Or the day before the day to come.
(03.04.26)
© Ben Quant 2026
Photo Armon • CC BY-SA 3.0
Poem 840 – Good Friday Conundrum
Two outstretched arms
Pinned like a butterfly
Collected under glass,
Its beauty cruelly faded.
A rigor mortis shrug
Perpetual question posed;
What does this execution
Mean? And why like this?
Two thousand years on and this question still demands reflection.
(03.04.26)
© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Wim van ‘t Einde on Unsplash
Poem 839 – Gethsemane
The air was replete with birdsong,
Heavy with light and life
But that was in the day
And now the night has come.
With darkness’ descent,
The breeze is suffocated,
Breath evacuated,
And every song is stilled.
Watch the flowers close,
Hiding their colours, concealing
Faces, whilst ancient olives
Turn their crinkling backs.
Look, one by one their weighty
Eyes begin to droop,
Joining the garden’s slumber.
Now see! The soldiers come.
Today we remember the Last Supper after which Jesus and his friends head out to the Garden of Gethsemane where Jesus was arrested. The opening line came from a walk this lunchtime in Lee Valley Park which was glorious with birdsong; a counterpoint to my reflections on the day.
(02.04.26)
© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Stacey Franco on Unsplash
Poem 838 – Questions for Judas
Did you spring up those final nervous steps,
Or walk with heavy heart and dragging legs?
Was it laced with anger, your request?
A sense of sadness, or perhaps regret?
Did you expect a welcoming embrace,
Or fear closed faces turning you away?
What did you expect to get in exchange,
How many coins made up the going rate?
What led you here? What fueled this giving up?
And when did you discover your mistake?
Thirty silver coins does not sound much;
How much did you expect this deed to make?
Was your life dictated by the sword?
Or did you for love betray your friend and lord?
Judas has always intrigued me. He is only recorded as asking one question of the chief priests, ‘What are you willing to give me?’ I have a lot more that I would ask him.
(01.04.26)
© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Joshua Hoehne on Unsplash
Poem 837 – Holy Tuesday
Matthew 21:18-22
The fruitless fig tree withers,
its barren branches bend
contorted in their thirst,
a dry and desperate end.
Besieging soldiers’ swords,
the temple stones are torn
one tumbled on another
a crumbled carcass scorned.
A cursing Christ decries
the poverty of their lives
the lack of love that’s seen
no faith, no fruit, just leaves.
Today’s Holy Tuesday of Easter week, the day Christians traditionally remember Jesus’ cursing of the fruitless fig tree and the fruitlessness of the Temple this symbolised.
(31.03.26)
© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Wyxina Tresse on Unsplash
Poem 836 – Holy Monday
In deft defiance, an act of holy disorder,
The tables are turned within the Temple Courts,
And many moneychangers made to moan.
An act of targeted terrorism or
The perfect protest made to pillory
The priests’ hypocrisy in oppressing the poor.
In judgement Jesus stands for the Gentiles, calling
For peace and prayer, not spiteful separation,
Aiming his anger at their acts of partition.
Today is Holy Monday, the day that Christians traditionally remember Jesus’ protest in the Temple.
(30.03.26)
© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Anton Mislawsky on Unsplash
Poem 835 – A Palm Sunday Sonnet
The red kite wheeled observing us below;
a skillful twitch of tail, a turn, a dive
to keep us in its view. We gathered so
that we might not forget just how you strived.
Your fight? To make your message plain that you
were not the coming saviour that we reckoned
on. From feeding multitudes with food
to handling ‘blind’ religious leaders’ heckling,
you laid out in deeds your Father’s call on
your life to rule by sacrifice not might;
a monarch on a donkey not a stallion
demanding love by deeds instead of right.
The kite joins children crying out in hope
its mewling anthem joins their pericope.
Arriving at church for our Palm Sunday service this morning, I was quite taken by the magnificent red kite flying overhead. Not my best (still trying to get to grips with rhyme), but it will do.
(29.03.26)
© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Avel Chuklanov on Unsplash
Poem 834 – St. Paul Songs
Voices awaken London’s chilly streets,
A rousing swell of sound announcing life.
Their notes disperse upon the swirling wind
each one a seed of joy. They scatter through
the city stirring statues from their sleep.
Their vigil ceased they stretch and smile with us.
It was wonderful to watch our daughter’s choir, Bristol Show Choir, performing outside St. Paul’s today.
(28.03.26)
© Ben Quant 2026
Ode for the Day 