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
Arts & Literature
Poem 247 – Fender Squire Strat no. E103560
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
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
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)
Poem 230 – The Writer’s Dance
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
Poem 225 – Where’s Sherlock When You Need Him?
Improved version!
For Christmas I got Kate a copy of Cain’s Jawbone for Christmas. Fiendish. This may take some time...
(28.12.23)
© Ben Quant 2023
Poem 223 – Boxing Day Anecdote
Catching up on poems from the last few days…
A little weary, out of rhythm,
we rise to scattered festive relics.
An anecdote is told about
a former poet laureate.
Required walking to clear our heads
and settled Christmas lethargy.
We stop to feed Egyptian and Canadian
geese and opportunistic pigeons.
Back home it’s time for lunch, comprised of
yesterday’s offcuts before
a most unexpected reprise,
“You know that story? I missed a line,
‘I woke besides the ugliest woman…'”
A true story…
(26.12.23)
© Ben Quant 2023
Poem 219 – Sleep
The light switch flicked and only we prevail
And as we sleep as one, one breath we breathe
I don’t recall when I forgot to marvel
Before, we talked and read, then after, we leave
And as we sleep as one, one breath we breathe
Miraculous contained within mundane
Before, we talked and read, then after, we leave
The ordinary matters and, shared, sustains
Miraculous contained within mundane
Two pillows bound together by one sheet
The ordinary matters and, shared, sustains
Your daily life around my form completes
Two pillows bound together by one sheet
I don’t recall when I forgot to marvel
Your daily life around my form completes
The light switch flicked and only we prevail
This poem takes the form of a pantoum, a Malaysian form with eight lines repeated in a strict order, and is inspired by Pádraig Ó Tuama’s post on the ordinary. After almost 30 years of marriage, the simple act of sharing everyday life and daily routines, such as sleep, is simultaneously both ordinary and surprising.
(30.11.23)
© Ben Quant 2023
Photo by Krista Mangulsone on Unsplash
Poem 201 – Genetic Verse
Your verse hasn’t faded,
just merely passed along
Watson’s famed double-helix,
finding a new voice in me,
your son. Your words still speak.
I may not have your humour,
my poems don’t twinkle like
yours do, so mimicking
your eyes as you read them.
They have a different accent.
But underneath they share
that same urge to be spoken,
to find a way to be
formed and found and so heard.
Nature and nurture guide me.
I write and hear us speaking
shared turn of phrase, and see
a familiar gesture.
I smile in recognition
and wonder whose turn’s next.
Dad has always written verse, verse that’s made me smile and groan and think. Recently he’s found his fading memory has militated against this. I think he’s felt the loss. Dad, your poems have inspired mine. I hope that in some way through them you speak on.
(31.08.23)
© Ben Quant 2023
Photo by Sangharsh Lohakare on Unsplash
Poem 192 – An Artist? Me?
I wonder if the street artist
who paints the lines along the road,
finishes with a signature,
a declaration: ‘This is mine!’
Or does the cashier get a credit
in recognition of the music
performed skillfully day by day
extemporaneously at their till?
And how about the office temp
who chisels out the perfect script
incisive words carefully cut
and sculpted on their laptop screen?
Or what about the manager
who orchestrates the staff,
conducts with policies and emails:
please take a bow for your performance!
There’s something in the way we’re made,
embedded deep within our soul,
that leads us to express ourselves:
the truth is everyone’s an artist.
A throw away joke over our church drop-in lunch about signing road markings got me thinking…
(23.06.23)
© Ben Quant 2023
Photo by Grooveland Designs on Unsplash
Ode for the Day 