Author: BenDQ

Poem 202 – A What3Words Haiku

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Temperature plummets
and so whimsical winter
makes.poetic.snows

This was actually written way back before ‘Poem 1‘, but using what3words to locate my car and tent at Greenbelt reminded me of it. The gates and signposts in Lea Valley have what3words identifiers on them to help locate them. One not far from us is the magical ‘makes.poetic.snows‘. This was begging to be put in verse (but hopefully not into practice, not too soon anyway…)
(01.09.23)

© Ben Quant 2023
Photo by Jessica Fadel on Unsplash

Poem 201 – Genetic Verse

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Your verse hasn’t faded,
just merely passed along
Watson’s famed double-helix,
finding a new voice in me,
your son. Your words still speak.

I may not have your humour,
my poems don’t twinkle like
yours do, so mimicking
your eyes as you read them.
They have a different accent.

But underneath they share
that same urge to be spoken,
to find a way to be
formed and found and so heard.
Nature and nurture guide me.

I write and hear us speaking
shared turn of phrase, and see
a familiar gesture.
I smile in recognition
and wonder whose turn’s next.

Dad has always written verse, verse that’s made me smile and groan and think. Recently he’s found his fading memory has militated against this. I think he’s felt the loss. Dad, your poems have inspired mine. I hope that in some way through them you speak on.
(31.08.23)

© Ben Quant 2023
Photo by Sangharsh Lohakare on Unsplash

Poem 200 – The Wedding Dance Floor

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Last night I danced all night.
Today I have no voice
and blisters on my toes
to witness my exploits.
It may have been a case of
defiant dad dancing
but do I care? Do I?
No, not at all! For those
few hours I lost myself
within the moment.

Earlier this month I had the joy of attending the wedding of a couple I know through church. It was a wonderful day for a wonderful couple. The disco was great fun too – I only hope I didn’t put others off… I wrote this at the time and have finally dusted it off and made it presentable.
(30.08.23)

© Ben Quant 2023
Photo by Greyson Joralemon on Unsplash

Poem 199 – Greenbelt Portaloo Roulette

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A midnight queue
to use the loo
the final act has faded.

Where could it be,
this lavatory,
on which my bum descended?

A Kettering field
in which we yield,
our hearts and minds upended

A place of grace
but a trial I face
‘cos without a trace
the toilet roll has ended!

Greenbelt Festival is home to me, a place I’m pulled back to year after year to meet friends, have my soul restored, and enjoy a thoroughly good time. This year was no exception. The combination of talks, music, camping, and yes, poetry, is good for me. Home now, I’m missing it all, all that is except the portaloos…. Here’s one written at the end of Saturday night.
(29.08.23)

© Ben Quant 2023

Poem 198 – Silence

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Sometimes, the most eloquent prayer is silence.
It says I cannot feel your pain because
I do not walk the path you tread, it’s yours.
In ignorance, I have no words to give;
those I possess will not suffice, meaning
speaking belittles your experience.
And so, like Job, I hold my hand across
my mouth to offer you the best I can.

As a church minister, I frequently find myself with people facing suffering. I’ve learnt that the best thing to say is often nothing at all. The best thing is to simply be there with them.
(17.08.23)

© Ben Quant 2023
Photo by Kristina Flour on Unsplash

Poem 197 – 3 Slip, Chatham Docks

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This vaulted canopy, cascading wave,
cathedral to the men who crafted ships.
Your hall of mirrors draws past scenes towards us
and paints them in an overlapping vision
so ghosts of shipwrights, echoes of the age
of sail, now walk with us beneath your cage.
Their sweat lined muscles stretch and strain in labour,
slipways delivering hard won art down birth
canals to Father Thames, whose eager arms,
outstretched, lap forwards to receive them.

We recently spent a happy day exploring the historic docks at Chatham. At the heart of them stands 3 Slip, this magnificent building in which the boats were built. It’s vast and glorious – ignore the floor in the picture, that’s a mezzanine level erected so you can view the roof. It didn’t take much to imagine the sights, sounds, feel and smells of the place as it was when it was open.
(16.08.23)

© Ben Quant 2023

Poem 196 – These Boots…

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These boots were made for walking,
for crawling, breaking, brawling,
for stomping, splashing, stalking,
for marching and for talking.

These boots were made for posing
for goth and skinhead moping,
for teenage angst and pouting,
for kicking cans and shouting.

These boots were made for fighting,
for heavy metal striding,
for lasting and maturing,
for polishing, enduring.

I recently acquired my first pair of Doc Martens. As a teen I always fancied a pair, it’s taken a while… They’re quite wonderful, although as my blisters attest, they’re in need of breaking in. Not sure I’ll use them for fighting though!
(10.08.23)

© Ben Quant 2023

Poem 195 – School’s Out

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The final word is written,
all pens put down, books closed.
The last bell rings and out
you flow, released, tears shed
in streams of joy and sadness.
Now certainty’s exchanged
for possibility.
When summer fades you will
return but not to us.
A new community
awaits, potential on
the cusp of being written.

I had the joy of playing a part in the Leavers’ Assembly for a local primary school last week. One of the delights of my position is being a part of their community, and seeing fine young people emerge, flourish, and take their next steps.
(24.07.23)

© Ben Quant 2023
Photo by Chang Duong on Unsplash

Poem 194 – The Importance of Space

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We gathered round and peered.
The husband said, ‘It’s deep,’
I nodded in agreement.
‘It’s deep so I can fit on top.’

I backed away to give
him space for thought. A moment’s
silence, and then, amen,
the hole was filled with prayer.

Leaving, I noticed that
his arms were full of nothing,
as was his car, and home,
his sentences left…

Sometimes the nothing hurts,
but not always. Sometimes
it takes familiar shape,
its contours reassuring.

I haven’t posted a poem for a while, partly because I’ve been distracted with other things, and partly because I’ve been grappling with this one. It started off as a poem about the importance of giving others space to be, but ended up as something else. I worry it’s a little glib, I hope not, but I don’t think I can take it any further right now.
(16.07.23)

© Ben Quant 2023
Photo by Valentin Lacoste on Unsplash

Poem 193 – A River Dreams

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The Lea meanders, ambles on her course,
and in her brooding sleep she meditates.
Above, along, aside, reflections rise,
a flock of dreams, take wing and, graceful, flies:

Cormorant, cuckoo, coot, moorhen,
great crested and cousin little grebe.

Black headed gull, common gull, common tern,
reed and sedge warbler, grey wagtail.

Egyptian goose, greylag goose, Canada goose,
grey heron and little egret.

Mallard, wigeon, goldeneye, goosander, gadwall,
silver wood, shoveler, teal and tufted ducks.

Hobby, buzzard, red kite, kestrel,
sparrowhawk, barn owl, little owl.

Great spotted and green woodpeckers,
allusive kingfisher, bashful bittern.

As a child I dreamt of reaching high
until the sunrise pulled me to and moored me.
Detached, released, unlike that earthbound son
her dreamborn flights of fantasy soar freely.

Yesterday I finished reading Robert MacFarlane’s magnificent prose poem Ness. This, and the lists found in other writings of his, inspired this, as of course do our many sightings as we have walked alongside our neighbour, the slumbering Lea. The photo is of an adult cormorant I managed to snap in 2019: a favourite bird, comical, haughty and surprisingly graceful.
(29.06.23)

© Ben Quant 2023