Arts & Literature

Poem 793 – Wanted

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Wanted. A renegade poem on the run.
Evading capture and identification,
it slips through my fingers whenever I
reach out to grasp it. Tantalisingly close,
its form remains disguised, its words elusive.
I chase it down abandoned stanzas, past
forgotten metaphors. In dreams I glimpse
it but on waking it remains obscured,
lost in half formed kaleidoscopic snatches,
seen only on the periphery of thought.

I had no idea what to write about today, and so that is what I wrote about.
(15.02.26)

© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Vivasa Michael Parlow on Unsplash

Poem 788 – Don’t Steal Away the Magic

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Don’t take away the lure
of hidden woodland trails;
the wonder of a mystery
and striving for the grail.
Don’t steal away the magic.

Come let us wrestle monsters
with unpronounceable names.
and write our very own fables
in our own peculiar way.
Don’t steal away the magic.

Just sad or glad? You’re mad!
Please don’t confine our diction.
Throw out restraint, be free
with extravagant description.
Don’t steal away the magic.

Come, why restrict us to
perfectly formed cats and ham,
when instead we could have pizza
and misspelt dragon flan?
Don’t steal away the magic.

When words are an invitation,
a doorway to adventure,
who would decline the offer
and toss away invention?
Don’t steal away the magic.

Written in response to discussions with a teacher today.
(10.02.26)

© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Tom Hermans on Unsplash

Poem 787 – This Magic Place

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An annual act of anticipation,
Selecting dates for Shakespeare’s stage,
That wooden Globe in which the world,
Is magically made in marvelous ways.

The scent of sawdust tickles my senses,
The sound of sonnets, rousing song,
Hushed silence for soliloquies,
The prayers of people pulled along.

Each night it never fails to win,
Its wistful ways, this wondrous O,
And later on its legacy lingers,
This glistening gold whose tendrils glow.

We’ve been selecting dates for the Globe’s summer season ahead of it going on public sale tomorrow. A favourite place.
(09.02.26)

© Ben Quant 2026

Poem 784 – Roundel Labour

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This is an experiment to see if I might
Be able to birth a roundel across nine lines
Whilst keeping its rhyming crisp and delightfully tight
…..I think it’s fine

I’m reassured this body can be divine
And leap from the page just like a bird in flight
Or flow across the tongue, the finest wine

It shouldn’t take a struggle or a fight
To bring this labour to life like Frankenstein
Requiring forceful lightning to ignite
…..I think it’s fine

If not sure what to write about, try out a new form!
(06.02.26)

© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Alex Hockett on Unsplash

Poem 778 – Winter Lights

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Amongst Canary Wharf’s tall colonnades
we pause, transformed by dancing neon lights.
These bright kaleidoscopes of colour cause
the crowd in awe to stop and forget the world;
until the world joins in. The moon, full glow,
erupts to snatch the glory and the night.

Just back from a wonderful evening exploring the annual Winter Lights
(31.01.26)

© Ben Quant 2026

Poem 747 – A Year In Verse

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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

Poem 714 – Stumpf Fiddles & 78’s

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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