A gothic castle stands alone and distant,
Alluring to friends and strangers seeking fame,
Its silent turrets loom aloof and stark,
Above those players in their chilling game.
Each night the corridors are stalked by death,
Dressed in its cloak and visage drained bone pale,
Inside the traitors mass and roll their dice,
Whilst outside in the woods the banshee wails.
Traitors. Fantastic.
(16.10.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Mike van den Bos on Unsplash
Plump, olive green and shiny under the lamp
the frog sits in its tank and smiles a vacant
smile at me. For now it sleeps the sleep of
the idle, all its needs will be provided.
Occasionally it shuffles, rearranges
limbs, then settles down once more exhausted.
I’m not convinced a prince would pucker lips,
but if he did, what metamorphosis might
occur? Please welcome our new prince the toad!
I’m busy working on an entry to a local poetry competition, so here’s a quick one based on our pet White’s Tree Frog.
(11.05.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
A maze of scattered debris
lies around the base of
our unused fireplace.
Did a bird, nesting
upon its stack, dislodge
dry branches from last year?
Or Father Christmas have
an Easter practice run
to keep his ancient hands in?
Or did a howling ghost
whirl down the stack
to find the room was bare?
Or did some passing giant
chuck it down the chute
when on an early stroll?
Or is the flue a portal
down which this ash could tumble
from a parallel dimension?
Or maybe Krakatoa
blew its top once more
and scored this hole in one!
We found a load of wreckage around our fireplace this morning. How it got there I don’t know for sure, but I have my suspicions…
(21.04.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Image of Baron Munchausen by August von Wille, Public Domain
The black crows wheeled about and dived,
Three harbingers of doom descending
In perfect harmony, upon the man.
I knew not why they chose this wanderer,
Just what his crime or cause of grief,
But froze in horror as they harangued him.
Their cawing clawed along my back,
Paralleling their piercing talons,
Which, rampant, ripped his suit to shreds.
Brandishing his umbrella like a bayonet,
He thrust it furiously at the fiends,
But repelling them not retreated.
Around the corner he ran in terror,
Before, when out of sight, he screamed
A sound like shrieking foxes wailing.
At last I roused myself and ran
To offer help in fending off
These beasts, but found them gone, a feather
Left lying on the floor, the only
Evidence of their existence.
And of the man? No sign remained…
I never found the missing man,
Nor saw the hellish crows once more,
Except asleep in anxious dreams,
But even now I shrink in fear,
Upon the sight of silent birds
Aloft on wing or lonely trees.
Walking to church today I saw the crows sweeping in a curve, one before the other, in a downward dive. Starting to write about the sight, this is what came out. I didn’t intend to write gothic or alliterative verse, but that’s where it took me.
(18.02.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Stary Smok on Unsplash
Thrashing its shiny tail from side to side
in raging rancour the rising dragon roared;
a cry that caused the cavern walls’ collapse
and, harrowed, our heroes’ hearts to pause.
With a weighty stamp the beast made wave
the floor most furiously, causing them to fall,
but rallying they raised their righteous spirits;
emboldened by belief in their beautiful call.
The pious paladin picked his spot with prayer,
and grasping his glaive he struck a grevious blow;
but such its size, the serpent barely felt,
the piercéd pupil pricked from down below.
With furious vapours it fought to seize control,
enfolding its foe in flames from gaping doors
formed by its mighty jaws made red and wide,
that reached from rising roof to hardened floor.
Aiming at the arrogance he’d heard
may leave a learing lizard lying prone,
a doughty sea-dog sought to deal him doubt
and at his hardened heart his words did home.
And did the dreadful dragon hesitate,
distracted or entranced by tricky terms?
It must be so because, somehow,
the flame-licked fighter fought despite the burns.
These alliterative verses emerged from the tremendous evening’s party that formed the first half of the finale to a highly enjoyable role-playing game campaign. More may follow…
(23.01.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by raquel raclette on Unsplash
I am haunted, accompanied by ghosts,
the shadows from my past that lived and laughed
with me, shared my life, my joys and struggles.
These shades have made me who I am, they are
my friends, my skin, my thinking and my guides.
They aren’t to be exorcised but celebrated,
recognised, remembered, invited in.
At Halloween I celebrate my friends and family that went before me.
(31.10.24)
© Ben Quant 2024
Photo by Erik Müller 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
There’s a special kind
of osmosis which occurs when
children and adults are put
in the same room together.
To start with, all seem even
but gradually the children
begin to run and run,
swarming ever faster.
Meanwhile the adults flag.
Their life is drained and soon
the dessicated edges
fray, their clocks wind down.
Could it be that this,
a lusting not for blood
but life, lies hid beneath
the old myth’s genesis.
It never ceases to amaze me how children seem to have such relentless energy. Exhausting!
(15.10.24)
© Ben Quant 2024
Image adapted from a photo by Igam Ogam on Unsplash
To start, prepare a base
of knights from Arthur’s Court.
and a dash of Robin Hood.
Stir with diced Norse legends.
Leave to simmer with a Hobbit,
thirteen dwarfs, a wizard
and an ancient dragon.
Add a sprinkling of Old Ones
and once the Dark has risen,
accompany with a garnish
of Garner, Brisingamen and owls.
Inspired by seeing a copy of Alan Garner’s brilliant Treacle Walker at my parent’s house. The owl is in their garden.
(21.09.24)
© Ben Quant 2024
This morning’s frost looked beautiful but
it bites my neck and makes my muscles ache.
My fingers have become a fading white.
My breath’s condensing on my nose. It drips.
I brew more cups of tea to warm within
but even this becomes draining,
necessitating even more trips to the bathroom.
I fear to look in the mirror.
Will anything be there? Or is, as I suspect,
the cold in truth a thirsting vampire with
its fangs open in sharp and siphoning anger.
It’s cold…
(01.12.23)
© Ben Quant 2023
Photo by David Hellmann on Unsplash
Ode for the Day 