The conductor lifts his baton
The audience falls silent
.
.
.
.
.
A stifled cough
.
.
.
.
.
Rapturous applause!
My head is full of other matters today, and empty when it came to writing. Got me thinking about a poetic version of John Cage’s silent orchestral piece.
(11.01.26)
© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Kristina Flour on Unsplash
Distracted today
Out of imagination
Maybe tomorrow
(03.01.26)
© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Annie Spratton Unsplash
A year ago I set myself a challenge:
a poem a day across the coming year.
Today I write the last, the deed is done:
a daily haiku, sonnet or sestina,
three hundred and sixty five of them, each down
before the final chime of midnight’s rung.
Except for Christmas Eve, cause then I tarried
until the Holy Day had peeked above
the dawn’s divide, the final candle lit,
and Merry Christmas bid to one and all.
And now I sign off twenty twenty-five
with this my final rhyme ’til twenty-six!
I did it! Some serious, some fun, some hasty, some long, but regardless of that 365 complete (if numbered wrong…)
(31.12.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Elisha Terada on Unsplash
The Duke takes to the stage,
Two suits and greying dreadlocks,
In hobo-chic and whimsy.
He owns it, we are his.
Beside him Chip, sidekick
In gramophone adventures,
An ever growing assembly
Of percussive curios.
Stumpf fiddles & 78’s,
Together weaving dreams,
They lead us through forgotten
And delicate shades of rhythm.
And as the applause begins
To fade, we find ourselves
Returned enriched, released,
We find, by a poet’s vision.
Thursday night we spent the evening in the company of the wonderful Duke Special and ‘Temperance Society’ Chip Bailey in an intimate gig in Colours, Hoxton. What a night.
(28.11.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
At the play tonight
Gandalf sat down behind me
And magic happened
Went to see the fantastic Nicola Walker tonight in The Unbelievers. Ian McKellen was also in the audience.
(22.11.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
I’m losing all my numbers.
They’re falling off the page
and terminally descending,
cascading down the screen.
Perhaps it’s time to cross
them out, ignore them all
and do without? Or should
I take a dive myself
into the title depths
to number them afresh?
I’m not so sure I’m ready
to commit today,
and so I’m standing at
the edge and dipping in
my toe. Tomorrow? Perhaps…
Having filled in the gap previously identified, I’ve realised the numbers still don’t add up. It turns out there are still another 33 numbers missing or thereabouts, scattered amongst my poem titles. If only there was a way to quickly correct them all…
(19.11.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by lionel mermoz on Unsplash
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
The deed is done,
the audience won, I hope,
the words delivered
without a stumble,
(well just a little one
when I became distracted).
And now I’ll sleep with thoughts
of friends and family in Him.
It wasn’t good enough,
it never is, and nor am I,
but He is all we need.
For the second year running I ended up stepping into the gap when a speaker couldn’t make it to our annual Conference. A late night scrawling turned into a poetry gig with a message – a first public ‘reading’ of my poetry.
(28.10.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Tonight we finished Mark,
A tale of breathless action,
Inspired non-violent protest and
Vivid imagination.
That reaches across our barriers,
Draws in outcast and lost,
Embraces the rejected,
Values the poor and last.
The story that is Jesus,
The man from Galilee
Who stood against the Temple,
The powers and hypocrisy.
Was crowned upon a cross,
This sentence makes no sense,
Thus overturned the tables
And died a traitor’s death.
That builds to its crescendo,
Its resurrection scene,
And then abruptly ends.
I’ve been running a group exploring Mark’s Gospel, made up of church goers and non-church goers. It’s been a really intriguing and insightful journey.
(23.10.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Greg Rosenke on Unsplash
There are thirty-nine steps
From four hundred and ten to fifty,
For each and every one,
A poem is currently missing
A momentary loss of focus,
Or limited concentration?
A lack of counting skills
And failed administration?
Perhaps it’s something wilder,
A case of espionage?
A chase across the country
From spies in camouflage?
No, I finally must come clean,
So here is my confession,
I’ve come to the conclusion
That they were never written.
And so I’m stepping backwards
And filling in the gaps,
That I’ve apparently caused
By this annoying lapse!
I’ve just made the annoying discovery that some of my poems are missing… or in truth, I failed in my numbering and can’t be bothered to go back and correct them all!
(21.10.25)
Ode for the Day 