Author: BenDQ

Poem 251 – Under Our Flag

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Since when is stealing shoes,
burning bins or smashing windows,
a form of discourse rather than violence?

Since when is encircling hotels,
hurling abuse and chucking stones,
a form of protest rather than a siege?

Since when is wearing a balaclava
standing up to be counted
rather than hiding one’s guilt?
And spreading misinformation
not a barefaced lie?

If you have a legitimate reason to protest,
protest legitimately, not like this,
not under our flag.

Like many, I’m bewildered and shocked by the scenes in our country right now.
(04.08.24)

© Ben Quant 2024
Photo by Pawel Janiak on Unsplash (representative image, not from the current situation)

Poem 249 – Dedicated

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My to-do list is ready,
tasks hungry to be ticked,
I’m waiting for the gun.

Today I will be productive
and focus on the job –
no time for mindless scrolling.

I turn off notifications,
say no to interruptions
and put aside my phone.

But before I start
I’d better check
just one more time…

Is it procrastination, lack of discipline or dopamine release trigger by mobile alerts? Whatever it is, I’m guilty like so many of us by being distracted by the lure of one more look…
(02.08.24)

© Ben Quant 2024
Photo by Austin Distel on Unsplash

Poem 248 – Back to the Future

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In Aymara they say the past
is not behind us but before,
it’s the future that’s obscured

This country’s one we know,
its peaks and troughs have been well trod,
we’ve walked them all our lives,

whereas the future’s yet
unseen, its contours strange to us,
continuous but obscured.

It’s hidden from view. Like drunks,
we stumble backwards tugging the veil
to find out where we’ve been.

A while back I read a fascinating article on the BBC website about the relationship between time and language and space. The way some invert our usual concept of the past being behind us and the future before us caught my attention.
(01.08.24)

© Ben Quant 2024
Photo by Kaspars Eglitis on Unsplash

Poem 247 – Fender Squire Strat no. E103560

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My first, long coveted,
I won you picking strawberries
that back-breaking summer.

Rising before the sun
to put the hours in,
I strived to earn your love.

Constant companion, always
in reach and ready, you gave
my stumbling tongue its voice.

Your patient tutelage
coached stained fingers to
coax songs from eager strings.

Alas, in time, I took
your grace for granted, strayed
and put you down.

Once vibrant, stashed and silent
forgotten, muted, still,
abandoned to the loft.

Strings began to rust. Dust
deepened, arthritis curled,
and cracks defiled your face.

Time passed.
Others came and went.

I have my own lines now,
a turning tide of hair,
and vault of memories.

Is it true that age
brings wisdom? Perhaps.
Nostalgia turned me back.

Curiosity led me
to pick you up once more,
wipe off the dirt and wonder…

Could you be resurrected,
know life beyond the loft,
made new and soar once more?

New pick-ups, strings and scratchboard,
chips filled in, a touch
of paint to make amends.

Forgiveness sought and offered,
your arms around my neck,
we dance as one again.

This poem’s taken longer that I thought it would to pull together. I was given some money in May for my birthday and thought I’d use it to try and restore my first electric guitar. She was in a dreadful state, and I was a bit anxious that it was a lost cause. Much to my joy, it went so much better than expected, and picking her up and plugging her in the first time was like meeting a long lost friend.
(28.07.24)

© Ben Quant 2024

Poem 246 – Project Thirty-Five

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The camera slows.
Time passes frame
by frame. Our eyes
are fixed, breath held.
Momentarily
the journey’s forgotten
and all is now.
The missile fires
and threads its path
through raging blood
and wheels to close
upon the mark.
Released,
the crowd explodes.

History was made today as Mark Cavendish won his 35th stage on the Tour de France, the most anyone had achieved. Astonishing.
(03.07.24)

© Ben Quant 2024

Poem 245 – Riotous & Free

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My garden lawn’s awash
with yellow dandelions
but I don’t care one jot!
Their golden manes gaze upwards
and glory in the sun.
Arm in arm they dance
in wild abandon with
dizzy daisies, violets,
and forget-me-nots; what joy!
Giddy with exuberance,
drunk and loud, their’s is
no polite society.
They relish in their freedom;
I long to find their beat.

Is it a deliberate effort to encourage wildlife, is simple laziness, you can decide, but I love seeing our lawn full of wild flowers in the sunshine.
(20.05.24)

© Ben Quant 2024

Poem 244 – Now I’m 52

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You know it’s your 52nd birthday
when you keep thinking it is Friday
when in fact it is Thursday.
Is my subconscious telling me
to simply skip over it?
Being an Englishman
I don’t know where to look
when people sing Happy Birthday,
how to configure my face,
or if I should join in.
You’d have thought I’d have
worked it out by now.
I celebrate by trimming nostril hairs
I never used to have and
stretching out stiff limbs.
Perhaps I’ll treat myself
to a proper coffee while I work.
As a child I received cards,
as an adult, thumbs up from Facebook.
Internet forums I once joined,
but have long since forgotten,
emerge from the mists of time
to offer congratulations.
Will I do the same one day?
A dusty poem popping up
in someone else’s Google search?
I do some sums.
Three score years and ten?
Just eighteen left;
that doesn’t sound so good.
Let’s change the parameters.
Doubling makes one hundred and four
and allows the same to come.
Possible? Perhaps.
And as every day’s a gift
and I’m a half-full glass guy
I’ll gratefully take every one.
Yes, happy birthday to me
and many more to come!

For some reason I’ve got it in my head that today’s Friday, when it’s Thursday, and more significantly (to me at least), my birthday…
(16.05.24)

© Ben Quant 2024
Photo by Becky Fantham on Unsplash (you may need to change your window shape/size to see the picture properly…)

Poem 243 – Hedgerow Ragamuffins

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The sky is wakened
by the urgent chatter
of sparrows bouncing
back and forth.
I can only see a few
but their chorus fills
my morning ears
and stirs me from
my slumbers.
They loiter in the bushes,
kicking cans and
and smoking joints, but
these avian urchins,
these hedgerow ragamuffins,
these cheeky chappies,
are anything but common
– they are the heralds
of the morn!

Pouring my morning cup of tea today, the air was suddenly
filled with the sound of sparrows singing; rowdy but beautiful.
(10.05.24)

© Ben Quant 2024
Photo by Jacques LE HENAFF on Unsplash

Poem 242 – Under Albert’s Mushrooms

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Back then I lived next door,
yes, Albert was my neighbour.
On summer days I used
to laze upon his lawns,
take out my books, kick off
my shoes, pretend to work.
Before that, though, I caught
Slowhand playin’ the blues
beneath your famous mushrooms.
A family friend had to
queue for tickets as
they went up for sale
prior to my coming.
Three summers and exams
were passed and then my turn
to strut upon the stage,
trying not to trip.
Handshake, applause, job done.
Top billing? No, I shared
the stage with a thousand
others and many yawns.
Later, I returned to
peruse Parisienne Walkways
as Belfast’s boy gave all.
Jaws were dropped in unison as
that note was held and held.
And then to cap it all
a Beatle stepped on stage.
Guitars did weep. And me.
Later I brought the family
to battle Daleks and
laugh at stupid deaths.
And now I’m back to see
poets rise up in anger,
tears, and fears, and hope.
It’s the hope that lingers,
hope found in new worlds
created by their words.
As one we rose and cheered,
and flowed out on the streets
and found them changed, made new.

Over the years I have been to the Royal Albert Hall many times for a whole array of reasons, graduation, guitar heroes, the proms and on Wednesday night, poetry (see: https://www.royalalberthall.com/tickets/events/2024/the-poets-revival/). Boy, was that a storming night.
(05.05.24)

© Ben Quant 2024