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
Counting sheep?
That’s what we do when
we want to summon sleep.
We close our eyes and count
That bundle of black and white.
1, 2, 3…
And soon the bleating fades
Becoming clouds that float
In a dreamy eyelid landscape.
That one resembles a friend
I used to know before,
In a school that used to be
Big but now is small.
4, 5, 6…
The red bricks reconfigure
Become our childhood home.
We gather, play that game
We invented once, one lazy
Summer holiday.
I count, you run. We argue.
We laugh and laugh and laugh.
7, 8, 9…
My kite drifts higher and higher,
Outlined crisply against
The blue. I join it, weightless
And fly across the fields.
I’m met elsewhere by someone
Who doesn’t belong, not here, not now.
This interruption passes
Unnoticed. For now it makes sense.
10, 11, 12…
I’m pedaling on my bike,
Feeling great and weightless.
Roaming at will. Freedom.
I absorb the neighbourhood,
Visiting its corners,
Extremities and folds.
Its blanket smothers me.
13, 14, 15…
The face of a first girlfriend,
Holding hands, first kiss.
Long hair, guitars, the band.
Aspirations that
One day I’ll find that note
And take it around the globe.
16, 17, 18…
That sheep reminds me of
The teacher who inspired me.
See, that plant he gave me
Is growing up and up
like Jack’s beanstalk, it
devours it all. We run.
19, 20, 21…
It’s funny how the faces
We revisit, are all
The old ones, childhood ones.
Black devours white
until the morning light
brings day, and all’s forgotten.
52 and counting…
It’s National Poetry Day, and the theme is counting. I set out to write a poem about the Parable of the Lost Sheep, which is all about counting, but the poem wouldn’t have it and instead took me elsewhere. Poems do that. Not so long ago I was reminiscing with my parents, I guess that’s partly where this poem comes from – I’m 52 by the way. The older we get, the more we seem to spend in our childhood.
(03.10.24)
© Ben Quant 2024
Photo by Christopher Burns on Unsplash
ONE day left to go,
TWO hours, in truth, give or take,
THREE lines to countdown….
It’s National Poetry Day tomorrow. This year’s theme is Counting. I’d better get this posted before the second line becomes inaccurate!
https://forwardartsfoundation.org/national-poetry-day/
(02.10.24)
© Ben Quant 2024
Photo by Braden Collum on Unsplash
Let’s get the obvious out of the way,
the biggies like thou shalt not kill,
or covert thou neighbour’s wife or ox.
(I’d like to think that surely now
we’d not equate a cow and a woman
or see them both as property).
And then there’s those that allegedly linger
Like not eating mince pies at Christmas
or providing a range to practice archery.
But what exactly is the etiquette
regarding bumping into one’s hero
in a queue for the urinals in the interval?
Is a nod of the head appropriate?
I would guess so. My quandary is,
what is our stance on autographs?
A real encounter at a Duke Special gig. None of us were knew how to respond to his presence.
(30.09.24)
© Ben Quant 2024
Photo by Erik Mclean on Unsplash
Ode for the Day 
