With oriental flare,
the grebe attracts attention.
Her sublime looks and slender
lines are carefully honed.
Exotic, not like other birds,
she owns her stage.
Checking all eyes are on
her, paparazzi ready,
she poses
to applause.
I don’t get to see these so often as other birds, but always appreciate them when I do. So distinct, they demand attention.
(30.03.23)
© Ben Quant 2023
Bengt Nyman, CC BY-SA 4.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0, via Wikimedia Commons
Stood by his office window, the silent
partner waits, serene and straight.
Beneath his greying brows, two keen
and wizened eyes, gaze out.
He waits. And waits. And waits. Until
incisively he strikes; a single
dart with ballet dancer poise.
Replete, he struts away.
So often we almost walk past these ‘old men’ of the river without noticing they’re there. Such graceful birds.
(29.03.23)
© Ben Quant 2023
New born, an angry punk
with shaven head, bright red,
shrill, urgent and demanding.
Nearby the parent swims.
Respectability
acquired, grown-up, it hides its
defiant past beneath
a comic exterior
of bloated feet and drab
commuter dress of black
and white.
But stray too close and watch
the rebel wake. With gun
fire spray of clacking beak
and furied charge across
the water, this crazy street
fighter fights mean not clean,
the threats soon flee now fly.
Behind with arms aloft
it cries its battle cry,
uncouth obscenities
of bloody consequence
should you once more defy
its patch. Return? You’ll die…
The violence is only momentary,
the furious flapping soon fades,
replaced by a tentative cease-fire.
With peace restored you might
reflect the scene just seen
was more a case of Benny
Hill than Al Capone.
But my advice is keep
this to yourself. She’s watching you.
I’ve always enjoyed looking out for coffee since reading Arthur Ransom’s ‘Coot Club’. Living here, I’ve really got to know them, watching their life cycles and displays thoroughout the year. Bonkers and loveable.
(28.03.23)
© Ben Quant 2023
Photo by Charles J. Sharp, CC BY-SA 4.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0>, via Wikimedia Commons
The closing chapter,
the final leg,
I’m almost home.
No longer looking
back but forward,
my destination
hoves into view;
the uneven creasing
of the spine
accompanied by
evasive wriggling.
Compelled I pick
up speed. I find
I’m skipping words
and tumbling over
myself to reach the
closing full stop.
But even as
I strive, inside
a simultaneous
braking competes.
Although my story
draws me on
I find I do
not want my journey’s
end. Not yet.
I’m currently reading Simon Armitage’s ‘Walking Home’, the account of his journey along the Pennine Way, enabled by the hospitality of strangers and poetry readings. Towards the end he recounts the unexpected feeling of not being elated at approaching home, having slipped into the habitualised routine of walking; a feeling not confined to walking.
(27.03.23)
© Ben Quant 2023
Photo by Lucrezia Carnelos on Unsplash
He holds his head up high
to look down upon us.
His curled haughty lips
suggest amusement.
I doubt he’s ever glimpsed
his own reflection in
the ripples – unless his smirk
disguises self-denial.
The cormorant’s smile caught my attention as we walked along the Lea yesterday. I’ve grown to love these comical birds, so graceful in the water, yet so clumsy looking in the air or on the bank wings outstretched to dry.
(24.03.23)
© Ben Quant 2023
Photo by JJ Harrison licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 3.0 Unported license
The wind’s white noise cannons against my ears
along with percussive rattling of jostling trees.
A distant car alarm melds with an avian
sentry, sounding an urgent, shrill reveille.
The muffled sound of barking blends into
the lapping of the usually languid Lea.
Astride their balance bikes, delighted children
point out serendipitous discoveries.
A blowy day for a lunchtime stroll by the River Lea.
(24.03.23)
© Ben Quant 2023
Ingredients:
blend together
two unrelated
cuisines or musical
languages
Outcome:
a fusion dish
of novel taste
an auditory
revelation
Ingredients:
two particles
accelerated
at speed into
a forced collision
Outcome:
explosive wave
of energy
reveals sub-
atomic secrets
Ingredients:
grab unrelated
ideas and hurl
together hard
to see what happens
Outcome:
metaphorical
generation
conceives surprising
ideas and insights
Ingredients:
a man, a woman
heat up their hormones
stir DNA
and leave to sit
Outcome:
new life erupts
through pain and joy
familiar yet
distinctly different
But still…
we build
our walls
close down
the channels
shut down
surprise
take cover
behind
our slogans
fearful
of what
might be
and be
discovered
This started life as a poem about poems and metaphors for World Poetry Day, but finished up as something quite different as I combined not just this and other interests of mine whilst reflecting on a local hotel housing asylum seekers.
(23.03.23)
© Ben Quant 2023
Photo by John Legrand on Unsplash
Hello sir, what can we do for you?
A mystery sensation when you pedal?
Hmm, might be the bottom bracket’s bearings,
is there a crunching when you turn the cranks?
Those pedals, are they new? Perhaps your cleats
are loose or worn. Let’s strip her down and change
your chain, it’s stretched and straining the cassette.
Your derailleurs look dodgy, did you know
(a cheeky wink) that wheels have nipples.
We’ll check your cables and their casing, rust
can stop their operation, make them snag.
Same for your brakes, your callipers and levers,
and let’s index those gears to make them smooth.
But sir, I hate to say it but I must,
have you considered that another factor
might be at play? Perhaps it’s not the bike
that creaks (a wince), perhaps it’s you.
Maybe the grinding’s in your knees, the pain
comes from a back that’s old and worn. I fear
There’s not so much that we can do…
for you.
I find when I’m cycling for any length of time that I begin to obsess about the sound and feel of my bike. The smallest thing becomes amplified until I become convinced there’s something wrong. Am I just looking for an excuse, or looking in the wrong place?
(21.03.23)
© Ben Quant 2023
Image by Jarkko Mänty from Pixabay
Tonight we buried a newt,
a cheeky chap who kept
his gills, those pink and flappy
fronds that waved hello.
A Peter Pan who stayed
in Neverland’s waters
from whence he cheered us on.
He’d flit and spin in joy
with energy unbounded,
confounding expectation.
Alas, eternal youth
ran out, Tick-Tock caught up.
We laid you by the pond
and as we did a nearby
dart alerted us to
the first newt of the spring.
The cycle begins again.
To Dennis, our delightful friend.
We have a small garden pond in our garden which became home to numerous young newts last year, some of whom were adopted and brought inside. Sadly one passed away yesterday. He’ll be missed.
(15.03.23)
© Ben Quant 2023
Photo by Piet Spaans shared under CC Licence 2.5
My longest ride awaits.
The bike is set and shoes
await for me to slip
them on and clip them in.
They sit and beckon yet
I hesitate, it’s been
too long since I have pushed
myself this far. I wonder,
do I have the legs or will
they turn to futile mush,
betray me? Foolishly
I’ve shared my plans. The only
choice is suffering
embarrassment or pain.
Too late I speculate:
why do we test ourselves
like this? I sigh, reach out
and put them on and leave…
Today I’m killing two birds with one stone. I have a midday meeting in Cambridge and decided to use it as a training exercise ahead of the London-Essex 100 in May, and am cycling up and back. It’s just under 80 miles. It sounded fun when I first mentioned it. Today it feels a little daunting…
I’m raising funds for Parkinson’s UK – sponsor my London 100 efforts here: https://events.parkinsons.org.uk/fundraisers/benquant/ride-london-100
(03.03.23)
© Ben Quant 2023
Photo by Josh Nuttall on Unsplash
Ode for the Day 
