We roll the dice
and all lean in,
our breath is held,
as pulses rise,
a gasp, a cry,
a ‘Yes!’ a ‘No!’
‘I hate this game!’
‘I told you so.’
The cards slide in
as turns are made,
collective groans,
delighted cheers,
as points are counted,
totals summed,
impatient waiting
to find who’s won.
A weekend away boardgaming, with the’evil’ 6 Nimmt card game being a highlight, with all its highs and delightful lows.
(16.11.25)
Today I wake to seagull song.
Their urgent, tumbling cries pierce through
sleep’s bleary mist with urgency.
‘Alack, alack, alack’, they wail,
‘it is the morn, be up, be up!’
And so I stumble from my bed,
to capture on the page their call,
and show I’ve heard and heed them well.
With that they’re satisfied and still.
No need for an alarm clock today.
(15.11.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Peter F. Wolf on Unsplash
It says light rain, and so it is,
but can a rain that does not stop,
that pours relentlessly, a grey
insipid, haze of wet that soaks
through coats, and trouser pockets where
they drain, be ever truly light?
It is so fine it makes its way
through every pour and crevice that
present themselves, from seams to button
holes, and zips to ears and noses.
It says light rain, but I’m weighed down
my clothes and spirits drenched and heavy.
It looks like a long weekend of rain ahead… (For transparency’s sake, thankfully I’ve been in the inside looking out at the rain, imagining, so don’t feel sorry for me!)
(14.11.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Today doesn’t feel like a poetry day,
It feels disjointed, somehow dredged
With all creativity drained away.
Where is the meter in doing admin?
The rhyme in writing rapid emails?
The tempo in ticking off the tasks?
Somewhere along the way the stanzas
Blurred into an endless verse,
A universe of drizzly grey.
It’s not been bad, in fact it’s been
Productive, but efficiency
Has never inspired great poetry.
It’s been another day of ploughing through the tasks (although there have been some meaningful human encounters on the way).
(13.11.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Wesley Tingey on Unsplash
Last week I lost three hours.
This was careless I know,
But at some point along
The way, they were stolen,
Snatched from under my nose.
Whoever took them must
Have had a fit of remorse,
For yesterday, they sneaked
Them back, leaving my body
Confused and out of sorts…
My body’s more than a little discombobulated today (what a great word that is!)
(12.11.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Caleb Toranzo on Unsplash
Back home the water’s never blue but here,
here it shines with an elusive tone that conjures
up memories of childhood colouring in.
Its iridescent casual lapping stands
in stark relief to the hillside that tears upwards,
ripping apart the sky with bauxite rust.
The sea’s alive, its gentle breathing teaming
with interweaving shoals of rolling fish
that dance in perfectly synchronized waves of life.
We sit absorbed by what we see, reluctant
to say farewell, but knowing that we must,
our mood tinged with farewell blue.
Inevitably the holiday has to end. I’m sad to say goodbye to its beautiful backdrop and hope to return another day.
(11.11.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
A look of recognition,
A smile across the room,
A name remembered, used
In conversation’s flow.
An asking after mamma,
A joke about the wine,
Then checking in to see
That everybody’s fine.
The little things add up
To greater than their parts,
A trick for all to learn,
This is the waiter’s art.
We’ve been treated by Serkan and his colleagues at the restaurant here in Marmaris. They have given a real masterclass in how much difference small touches make. Thanks gents!
(10.11.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Behind stone doors the dead sleep on,
two thousand years and more of slumber.
They’re waiting for the trumpet call,
but what’s another year to them?
Their clothes now hang long out of fashion,
the colours faded out of sight,
their tongue has fallen still, their names
forgotten to the mists of time.
Imagine if they woke today to
this world they wouldn’t recognise,
where billionaires fly out to space
and knowledge lives in webs online.
Where hearts aren’t weighed at judgement time
but swapped if ailing to save the living,
and gold’s exchanged for virtual digits
that dwell in plastic cards of credit.
But then they’d take another look
and smile that boney smile again,
as those that have still rule the roost,
humanity has barely changed.
On our Dalyan boat trip on the 7th, we passed the Necropolis. The ‘residents’ were buried some two and a half millennia ago. Life now is surely very different and yet, somehow the same…
(09.11.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Finally the sun pokes past the pines.
Rising above green branches it smiles,
gracing white English limbs with warmth
as they seek refuge from winter’s reach.
Meanwhile the nuthatch nimbly flits,
descending boughs in search of food,
and hooded crows call out in squabbling
song, oblivious to our play.
Distant peaks abruptly rise, their
sharpness standing in stark relief
to the serene and tender blue that idles,
gently washing their stoney feet.
A lazy morning today sat by the pool after yesterday’s enjoyable exertions.
(08.11.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Stepping off the beaten track,
we stumble on a twisting way,
that reaches up towards the sky,
betwixt the ancient buildings grey.
There, sitting in a doorway hunched,
a crone of many years gone by,
surrounded by her varied wares
to sell to tourists that catch her eye.
Come see my trinkets, dear, she cried,
don’t walk on by, come look and see,
I’ve perched here 30 years have I,
sat underneath this twisted tree.
I hesitate but for a moment,
but even that was far too long,
she caught me with a gnarly hand,
her bony grip surprisingly strong.
Pray tell me, pretty one, your name,
bend close and whisper in my ear,
I will not bite, my pretty one,
there’s nothing here for you to fear…
And so I found myself lean to
against an inner shrill alarm,
and muttered quietly my name,
as claws crawled up along my arms.
No sooner had the words slipped out
had she lept up and with a laugh
called out my dear I’m free at last
and cackling ran back down the path.
I found myself turn strangely weak,
and trembling fall down to my knees,
where catching sight of my young hands,
a ice cold fear my heart did freeze.
My fair young hands had wrinkled over,
my long blond hair had turned to grey,
my once lithe legs were now immobile,
my back had hunched within a day.
I tried to move but found I couldn’t,
my limbs were rooted to the spot
a curse, once hers, had passed to me
her lonely trade became my lot.
So if you find yourself walking
along the streets of Marmaris,
take care, my pretty one, take care,
of ancient crones with a whispered kiss.
Walking through Marmaris Old Town yesterday, we did indeed stumble upon an old woman selling bits and pieces from her doorstep. Kate got caught by her sand she was very insistent! We eventually managed to escape worth no purchases of unwanted gifts made. This poem quickly emerged as a story that had to be told.
(07.11.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Ode for the Day 