Three years on this trot
I’ve written poems today that
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A short one today! A busy day with a great service this morning, clearing the house and decorations this afternoon, and friends around tonight to finish the season.
(05.01.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Painting by Edwin Landseer, Scene from A Midsummer Night’s Dream (1851) (Public Domain)
This year I will not leap out of
a plane for charity,
nor scale a tree topped mountain summit
or swim across the sea.
I bet my debut novel still
will probably not get written,
and surely I won’t be packing theatres
with jokes and witticism.
I will not gain a medal or
some gong in the New Year’s Honours,
I plan not to feature in the news
for being some crazed wrong ‘un.
Instead my New Year’s resolution
is simply to see it through,
and on the way to write a poem
every day or two…
This year, other than getting grants for the church redevelopment, I have no special objectives or challenges planned, except the personal challenge of regularly posting poems throughout the year. Can I do one a day throughout 2025?
(01.01.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Vincent Burkhead on Unsplash
Sometimes a poem arrives unbidden
You’re simply minding your own business
And in it barges unrequested.
On other occasions you start to write
And hunting with your pen you stumble
Over it’s fully formed treasures.
And sometimes you have to fight for it
Like Jacob, refusing to let go
Of it until you receive its blessing.
Inspiration is a slippery thing…
(04.12.24)
© Ben Quant 2024
Photo by Jan Kahánek on Unsplash
First year of poems:
Three hundred and sixty five
Taking baby steps
They might not have been written daily, but that’s a year’s worth done. I’m definitely still finding my way, trying things out, a toddler of verse, but I’m having a lot of fun doing so.
(26.11.24)
© Ben Quant 2024
Photo by Fernanda Greppe on Unsplash
Wanted, one form for today’s poem:
Though villanelles are living hell
Limericks won’t do the trick
Sestinas are too mean
Haikus always lose
Pantoums confuse
But free verse
Is per-
verse
I had no idea what to write about today, so I thought I’d experiment with a new form and see where it took me – apparently to a poem about choosing form in the form of a nonet.
(21.11.24)
© Ben Quant 2024
Photo by Javier Gómez on Unsplash
My grandmother gave me the tales of Robin Hood;
it’s still safe on my bedroom shelf.
I had to stop it from being thrown away
and cried when Robin shot his final arrow.
It’s still safe on my bedroom shelf,
this small green book that appears nondescript and harmless.
I cried when Robin shot his final arrow
but I suspect others wouldn’t give it a second look.
This small green book appears nondescript and harmless,
but it’s always been a foundational story for me.
I suspect others wouldn’t give it a second look,
but it has subtly shaped the way I see the world.
It’s always been a foundational story for me,
I had to stop it from being thrown away.
My grandmother shaped the way I see the world,
through giving me the tales of Robin Hood.
Inspired by Pádraig Ó Tuama, I decided to try another pantoum, a poem made up of right lines repeated with a strict pattern. The lines can be tweaked to make them flow better.
(23.10.24)
© Ben Quant 2024
Just thirteen episodes in all.
So few and yet their magic reaches
far beyond their number’s sum.
Familiar notes transport me to
a shop that bridges the gap between
my childhood and maturity.
A shopkeeper appears inside.
An enigma: his origin’s
unknown, as is his name and motive.
He passes a coathanger to me
upon which his choice of outfit
hangs each time, a dream ticket.
Accepting without question, we don
the outfit, another’s skin, and find
ourselves metamorphosised.
A red knight, a hunter, a clown,
balloonist, wizard, spaceman,
zookeeper, cook and caveman.
A frogman, cowboy, carpet flyer,
and at last a pirate, before
an encore as a gladiator.
Not surprisingly, Mr Benn was a childhood favourite. More surprisingly, I find myself talking about him at a Churches Together service tonight, asking with Two Monsters.
(18.10.24)
© Ben Quant 2024
Photo Peloponnesian Folklore Foundation, CC BY-SA 4.0, via Wikimedia Commons
The band begins and feet instinctively
tap and bodies sway, a growing wave.
A primal urge, born in us from before
our mothers wombs. The pulsing of our veins.
This beating echo of Eden’s first heart,
quickens to music’s resuscitating breath.
Frustratingly, as the crescendo starts to swell
the rhythm stumbles and dies in self-awareness.
I went to see Joker: Folie à Deux at the weekend. Reading the reviews, I think I must be one of the few that buck the trend. I loved it (I wonder if not seeing the original makes a difference?) The soundtrack has been stuck in my mind ever since, and its swing makes me wish I could dance.
(10.10.24)
© Ben Quant 2024
Photo by Fabian Schneider on Unsplash
Perhaps next time I head to town
I’ll sing spontaneous songs out loud,
Burst into a ballads on the bus,
Rap nursery rhymes whilst in the rain.
Rather than moan perhaps I’ll try
A love song waiting for the lift,
Or scream some skratt to skip through time,
Or hum a hymn in hopefulness.
To stop succumbing to cynicism
I shall just jump around to jazz,
And bounce my way through big band blues
And leap to looping Latin beats.
And then as night descends I’ll try,
Some mellow murmured soulful number,
A gospel grace before at last
A lullaby to light day’s leaving.
I had free tickets to see Joker: Folie à Deux, which recounts the lead character’s demise through song (incidentally, in contrast to most reviews, I thoroughly enjoyed it). This got me thinking.
(06.10.24)
© Ben Quant 2024
Photo by Nadim Merrikh on Unsplash
Behind a post, up in the gods,
Feet by my teeth and knees tucked in.
Head near the ceiling, bag on lap,
I’m breathing fast, the air is thin.
Twisting hard to see the view
As music fades and lights are dimmed.
But I don’t care, as curtains rise,
A hush descends, the show begins.
In the West End tonight to see a show. This poem written in haste before we were told to turn our mobiles off.
(05.10.24)
© Ben Quant 2024
Ode for the Day 
