Author: BenDQ

Poem 192 – An Artist? Me?

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I wonder if the street artist
who paints the lines along the road,
finishes with a signature,
a declaration: ‘This is mine!’

Or does the cashier get a credit
in recognition of the music
performed skillfully day by day
extemporaneously at their till?

And how about the office temp
who chisels out the perfect script
incisive words carefully cut
and sculpted on their laptop screen?

Or what about the manager
who orchestrates the staff,
conducts with policies and emails:
please take a bow for your performance!

There’s something in the way we’re made,
embedded deep within our soul,
that leads us to express ourselves:
the truth is everyone’s an artist.

A throw away joke over our church drop-in lunch about signing road markings got me thinking…
(23.06.23)

© Ben Quant 2023
Photo by Grooveland Designs on Unsplash

Poem 191 – The London 100

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The Day Before:
I gather in myself,
my words, my thoughts, perception,
a quiet preparation.

The Morning – 4:15am:
This is no time to rise!
I hope adrenaline
will see me through. I dress.

The Wait:
We merge. A lycra clad
invasion forms a swarm,
then pauses, shivers, tense.

The Ride:
Released, a whirring horde, we fly unstoppable.
A churning, hungry tide, we flow through streets as one
– today, for once, they’re ours. Devouring tarmac miles
we weave through concrete towers and flyovers
until
            it’s gone, replaced by green relief.
We smile. The peloton is calmed, discovers peace.
We find our rhythm, settle in and settle down,
a steady cadence. Miles countdown through Epping’s trees,
and Essex fields. Pass picturesque hamlets that predate
the bicycle. Cheers accompany our carefree conversation.
Traverse Great Dunmow, Felsted, Writtle, Ongar, Chigwell
before
            aggressive city walls rear over us once more.
The sun’s fierce rays pummel us, bouncing off the road.
Remorseless, it bullies us, no shade to calm it’s edge.
My head begins to throb, it’s rhythm dissonant,
conflicting with the cycle of my weary legs.

The Last Leg:
After the drag, we spin.
Momentum carries us
to Tower Bridge. It’s over.

The Finish Line:
Grin for the camera. Stop.
Disturbing halt. Dismount,
with giddy limbs confused.

The Release:
Uncleated shoes create
a new cadence. I shuffle.
Am medalled. Disconnect.

It’s taken a few weeks to put this together to try and capture the experience of riding the Ride London-Essex 100 last month. It was a hypnotic day, long but strangely timeless. I’m definitely up for doing something like it again, as long as I can find a way to stop my head overheating!
(16.06.23)

© Ben Quant 2023

Poem 190 – Outside These Walls

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Unmanicured, my garden dances,
a field of sunlike dandelions,
swaying to a salsa beat.
No doubt my neighbour thinks it’s wild.
It is. This is nature’s rhythm.
It’s raw, untamed, and improvised. Wild-life.
Inside, I ache. Fettered, I wish
to join them but it’s too late and so,
instead, I watch the sparrows flit
between their stalks in freedom songs.

I’m a lazy gardener, and so need little encouragement to join #NoMowMay, in fact I’ve strayed into #NoMowJune (sadly the alliteration isn’t as good…) It turns out that being lazy is good for our barren garden, now it’s full of life.
(07.06.23)

© Ben Quant 2023

Poem 189 – Who Am I?

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Who am I?
I am how others see and shape me, friends
and colleagues, neighbours, enemies. I shift expression, slide to meet whoever stands
before me now. I am your husband, friend
and lover, sharing lives, and tears and dreams.
You’ve had my best and worst. I wonder what
you see, you who knows me best, who am I?
I am my work, my nine to five and more;
it’s how we catalogue and frame the other.
I am the teacher’s son, the scientist’s too,
designed by nature, nurture, chicken, egg.
Does anybody know the essential me,
the one beneath these morphing layers?
                                                                                I don’t.
He is not there, he doesn’t exist. I am
only because this web creates, remakes me.
I am I and you and him and we.

Who is the real me? A counterpoint to my previous poem (Poem 188 – Exposed). Those of faith might spot another allusion and contrast.
(23.05.23)

© Ben Quant 2023
Photo by Hermann Wittekopf on Unsplash

Poem 188 – Exposed

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I shed my face,
the one I placed
upon my face
this morning. Here,
with you,
                    it lies
discarded it’s
unnecessary.

The truth beneath
revealed, my veins,
and flesh displayed
to you. No need
to pause,
                    exposed,
stripped back, you stand
naked before me.

Watching the ease shared between Paul Whitehouse and Bob Mortimer in ‘Gone Fishing’ I found myself reflecting on the nature of friendship.
(20.05.23)

© Ben Quant 2023
Photo by Harli Marten on Unsplash

Poem 187 – The Zone

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The zone.
Eyes fixed, focussed yet absent,
two metres from the pedals.
All else excluded.

Legs spin.
Driving mechanical motion,
mental metronomes
propelling forwards.

Time ceases.
Suspended, gathered for
one purpose; moment, man
and bike united.

Until,
one splintering thought invades.
Awareness shatters in
momentum broken.

Occasionally I discover the zone when cycling, a joyful but fragile place.
(05.05.23)

© Ben Quant 2023
Photo by Florian Kurrasch on Unsplash

Poem 186 – And Relax…

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It’s finally done
The never-ending
task has reached
its end, full stop.
Conclusion signed,
sealed and delivered.
One question left,
that’s all. Tonight?
Just celebration.
Celebration and sleep.
Celebration, sleep,
and joyful emptiness.

This morning was viva day take two. Last chance saloon. This time I passed!
(28.04.23)

© Ben Quant 2023

Poem 185 – Tomorrow

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Today’s a day for not looking,
for refusing to see. A day
of pretence, for living in distraction.
A day of denial, refusing to
acknowledge what waits. A toddler
holding its hands over its eyes so
it can’t be seen. Today,
I shall not feel the weight
upon my back. Today,
I dam the dike with a finger,
adrenaline stoppered for now.
Today, I write verse. Tomorrow?
Tomorrow doesn’t exist.
Not yet. Tomorrow must wait.

Tomorrow I sit my doctoral viva retake. I should be revising.
(27.04.23)

© Ben Quant 2023
Photo by Gabor Koszegi on Unsplash

Poem 184 – The Adventures Of Evel Knievel on a Road Bike

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A life of neglect,
has wrinkled this skin
compounded by COVID
and war in Ukraine.

Shaken and stirred,
my body is bounced
from boulder to boulder,
more rumble than strip.

More crater than pothole,
Neil Armstrong’s at home here.
My limbs are disjointed,
my wheels are untrue.

How deep is that puddle?
How firm is that footing? Can
my padding take pummeling
much longer like this?

A crack in the cranks,
a snap of the shins,
I clasp on my cape
of the stars and stripes
and on the cusp of loud cursing
leap into the abyss…

As my training for the Ride London-Essex 100 continues, I’m becoming a little tired of the impact of the state of the roads on body and bike…
(20.04.23)

© Ben Quant 2023
Photo by Docob5 at English WikipediaW, CC BY-SA 3.0, via Wikimedia Commons

Poem 183 – Barn Dance

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Two couples, groups of four,
arrange themselves upon
the floor to dance. Caller’s

instructions given, they walk
it through, counting their steps,
fierce thought performs on faces.

The music starts and now
they charge whooping; tonight’s
for plowing on regardless!

We were at a family barn dance this weekend. Happy Birthday Emeyle and Jade, thanks for a highly enjoyable evening!
(17.04.23)

© Ben Quant 2023
Photo by Joel Wyncott on Unsplash