Arts & Literature

Poem 282 – A Poem

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A metaphor,
a playing with words,
or perhaps a simile,
a play upon words.
An idea beyond
prose definition.
A reaching for
elusive description.
A window pane
or mirrored glass.
A way to express
that which is past.
A captured dream
or aspiration.
An act of resistance,
freedom exclamation.
The deepest pool
or giggling brook.
Sublime or silly,
an alternative look.
A joyful craft or
frustrating art.
Both easily learnt
and always hard.

Thinking about what to write, today I found myself pondering the nature of a poem and its craft.
(04.09.24)

© Ben Quant 2024

Poem 278 – Completed

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A poem a day for a month to get back in the habit.
Today the last one, I made it to the end
(except for last night’s, a post midnight Cinderella….)
A chance to reflect, look back on the day’s events.
A chance to vent and work through accumulated
feelings, across the spectrum of joy to sorrow.
A chance to say this is who I am. Me.
A poem a day for August succeeded, all thirty one.

For me, August is a calmer month than others, with more space to think and do other things. At the start of the month, I set myself the challenge of getting back into the habit of writing a daily poem. With this one, it is complete.
(31.08.24)

© Ben Quant 2024
Photo by Aaron Burden on Unsplash

Poem 273 – Home

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Sleeping bag grappled.
Tent dried and packed,
along with a random item to be
rediscovered next time.
Rubbish disposed of,
green and not.
Excess taken to the foodbank.
Car sought in a car park
stripped to the bare essentials.
Give thanks when I find it.
Satnav set for ‘Home’.
Strange, this is home too.
A porcelain toilet will be nice though
and a proper cup of tea.
The wristband stays on,
I’m not quite ready yet
to say goodbye.

Greenbelt’s over for another year, and what a cracking weekend it was, despite having four seasons in as many days!
(26.08.24)

© Ben Quant 2024

Poem 271 – Greenbelt Snapshots

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Dragonflies flitting round the poet
A daughter dancing in the glade
Steam rising from the canopy
Shelter sought and thinking remade

Floral dresses accompanied by wellies
A speaker on Zoom surprised by the loos
Unexpected powercuts
A God who leaves us free to choose

Familiar faces seen once a year
Lost stories found in glorious song
The wind and rain at last dismissed
Joyous epiphany, here comes the sun

Snapshots from the last couple of days at Greenbelt. The weather continues to be a feature, but I’m optimistic that the wet and wind is more past us.
(24.08.24)

© Ben Quant 2024

Poem 258 – Banksy’s Cat

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Crowds gather
Traffic slows
Police pace
Tension grows
Excited chatter
Selfies shown
Meaning pondered
Headlines flow

Oblivious to it all
Our feline stretches
And wanders off

Yesterday we visited his latest in a series of animal themed street art pieces in London, this time Cricklewood
(11.08.24)

© Ben Quant 2024

Poem 252 – Canvas Calling

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Getting out the tents
Straightening out the poles
Counting out the pegs
Shaking out the folds
Cutting out the excess
Clearing out my soul

A lighter verse today – an antidote to the news – the canvas is beckoning! Preparing for a break in Scotland and then my annual pilgrimage, Greenbelt Festival.
(05.08.24)

© Ben Quant 2024

Poem 247 – Fender Squire Strat no. E103560

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My first, long coveted,
I won you picking strawberries
that back-breaking summer.

Rising before the sun
to put the hours in,
I strived to earn your love.

Constant companion, always
in reach and ready, you gave
my stumbling tongue its voice.

Your patient tutelage
coached stained fingers to
coax songs from eager strings.

Alas, in time, I took
your grace for granted, strayed
and put you down.

Once vibrant, stashed and silent
forgotten, muted, still,
abandoned to the loft.

Strings began to rust. Dust
deepened, arthritis curled,
and cracks defiled your face.

Time passed.
Others came and went.

I have my own lines now,
a turning tide of hair,
and vault of memories.

Is it true that age
brings wisdom? Perhaps.
Nostalgia turned me back.

Curiosity led me
to pick you up once more,
wipe off the dirt and wonder…

Could you be resurrected,
know life beyond the loft,
made new and soar once more?

New pick-ups, strings and scratchboard,
chips filled in, a touch
of paint to make amends.

Forgiveness sought and offered,
your arms around my neck,
we dance as one again.

This poem’s taken longer that I thought it would to pull together. I was given some money in May for my birthday and thought I’d use it to try and restore my first electric guitar. She was in a dreadful state, and I was a bit anxious that it was a lost cause. Much to my joy, it went so much better than expected, and picking her up and plugging her in the first time was like meeting a long lost friend.
(28.07.24)

© Ben Quant 2024

Poem 242 – Under Albert’s Mushrooms

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Back then I lived next door,
yes, Albert was my neighbour.
On summer days I used
to laze upon his lawns,
take out my books, kick off
my shoes, pretend to work.
Before that, though, I caught
Slowhand playin’ the blues
beneath your famous mushrooms.
A family friend had to
queue for tickets as
they went up for sale
prior to my coming.
Three summers and exams
were passed and then my turn
to strut upon the stage,
trying not to trip.
Handshake, applause, job done.
Top billing? No, I shared
the stage with a thousand
others and many yawns.
Later, I returned to
peruse Parisienne Walkways
as Belfast’s boy gave all.
Jaws were dropped in unison as
that note was held and held.
And then to cap it all
a Beatle stepped on stage.
Guitars did weep. And me.
Later I brought the family
to battle Daleks and
laugh at stupid deaths.
And now I’m back to see
poets rise up in anger,
tears, and fears, and hope.
It’s the hope that lingers,
hope found in new worlds
created by their words.
As one we rose and cheered,
and flowed out on the streets
and found them changed, made new.

Over the years I have been to the Royal Albert Hall many times for a whole array of reasons, graduation, guitar heroes, the proms and on Wednesday night, poetry (see: https://www.royalalberthall.com/tickets/events/2024/the-poets-revival/). Boy, was that a storming night.
(05.05.24)

© Ben Quant 2024

Poem 234 – A Social Network Poet

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If I were to post poems on Facebook would
that make me a Meta-physical poet?
If, however, I put them on Insta’
do I purvey convenient rhythm?
And don’t forget poor Twitter X
a place for adult-rated verse.
But truth be told as time is tight
and looking over my lines tonight
the persistent rhythm of the beating clock
perhaps my perfect home’s TicTok

In a recent talk I mentioned the metaphysical poet John Dunne. It was pointed out that perhaps I’m one too because I post poems on Facebook; it took me a day before the penny/pun dropped and I laughed aloud to myself walking along the Thames! This poem was perhaps, then, inevitable, although it’s taken a couple of weeks to get it posted.
(17.02.24)

© Ben Quant 2024
Original photo by dole777 on Unsplash

Poem 230 – The Writer’s Dance

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I like the feel of pen on paper,
the tactile bond that forms between
the brain and movement, thought and fingers,
as words are traced upon the sheet.
This physical description is
the only form of dance in which
I can partake because the rhythm
is not determined by my feet.

I treated myself to the luxury of a reMarkable tablet this Christmas, to try and combine the tactile thinking of physical writing and the convenience of computing. This was my opening trial run with it.
(08.01.24)

© Ben Quant 2023
Original photo by Thought Catalog on Unsplash