Food

Poem 854 – Reynard’s Feast

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Reynard appears from behind a car, a mystery
carcass dangling from salivating jaws.
He pauses eyeing us with wary wondering
eyes. Are we a threat? Should he withdraw?

Our curious eyes return his look, where did
his meal come from? No doubt he stole it in
the veiling dark: embolded burglary from
a plate, or salvage from an upturned bin?

We read each others questioning looks and stay
awhile until resolved we walk away.

A dusk encounter in an evening stroll.
(17.04.26)

© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Tim ten Cate on Unsplash

Poem 761 – The Cultural Pot

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The circling critics mass with clicking keys,
headlines angrily declaring that,
the multicultural culinary dish is dead.
They clearly haven’t tried our bubble and squeak.

Today a Brit, a Turk and a Kuwaiti worked
together, serving food to English neighbours.
Their dishes? Cuisine cooked from diverse cultures,
a blend of ingredients derived from different nations.

And as they did they shared from a common pot
of love and conversation. Send them home?
If we did, we’d find we’re left with silence, vacant
plates and empty hearts; a menu of empty lines.

I had a lovely afternoon today working at our foodbank with two volunteers both of whom have come from our Conversation Cafe for those who speak English and a second language.
(14.01.26)

© Ben Quant 2026

Poem 643 – Three Sandwiches

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A Bacon Sandwich:
Two slices of bread with meat in between,
The perfect blend (forgive me veggies),
Both perfectly complementing each other.

A Marken Sandwich:
Two gospel stories intertwined,
The second tucked inside the first,
Giving meaning to each other.

A Human Sandwich:
The symbiotic network
That comes from living in community,
Identify found in relation to each other.

We’re looking at Mark’s Gospel at church and how he structures his narrative to communicate to us. Tonight we talked about the Marken Sandwich.
(18.09.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by amirali mirhashemian on Unsplash

Poem 518 – Boundary Market

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A cacophony of smells assaults me,
seducing me with savoury scents.
Fresh cheeses pair with delicate herbs,
sitting by artisan breads and rolls.
Pies with flavours strange and familiar,
entice in rows of crisp gold cases.
Strawberries sell by cups or punnet,
(chocolate sauce is optional).
A brazen rainbow envelops me,
its racks of exotic, colourful fruits
transport me to a foreign land.
Within these streets life is compressed,
our bodies densely stirred together,
a heady cocktail of taste and language.

We were in London today for a show at The Globe today. Arriving early we wandered over to Borough Market, a first time for me.
(17.05.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Taylor Keeran on Unsplash

Poem 354 – Bread and Cheese

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You brought bread and cheese you’d made.
We sat and ate and talked about
ourselves around this simple feast.
And as we ate we opened up
about our differences. We talked
about our cultures, tastes and dreams,
the things that make us us, and learnt.
Somehow, this daily act brought us
together, across the miles that lay
between us; it made us one. I wonder
why it sometimes seems so hard,
when all it takes is bread and cheese.

On Fridays we run our Conversation Cafe at church for people with English as a second language. It is a big highlight each week.
(15.11.24)

© Ben Quant 2024
Photo by Alla Hetman on Unsplash

Poem 294 – I’ve Never Known Your Voice

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The view across the lake,
from the crest of Cader Idris.
The eyes of my life’s love as
she glances in my direction.

Feeling B.B. King’s vibrato
and Gary Moore’s sustain.
The emotional release of
an encore’s delighted applause.

The rich aroma released
from freshly ground coffee beans.
The taste of blue cheese. It shouldn’t
work but somehow it does.

Snuggling up on the sofa
and finding another’s world.
Talking to a gathered crowd
and holding them in your hands.

Discovering flamingo
mouths are upside down
so they can eat with their heads
between their distant feet.

Black and white images
formed within the womb.
The sight of freshborn signets
their feathers still damp with shell.

I’ve never known your voice,
not heard you talk out loud,
and yet, it strikes me that,
you’ve never really stopped.

Someone mentioned to me the other day that they’d heard God speak, and this got me thinking. I’ve never had that privilege, and yet…
(16.09.24)

© Ben Quant 2024
Photo NotFromUtrecht, CC BY-SA 3.0, via Wikimedia Commons

Poem 223 – Boxing Day Anecdote

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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 216 – The Foodbank Nicked My Chocolate Cake

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Oh, dear, I found out late
The foodbank nicked my chocolate cake
Oh, no, it was not funny
But apparently it was quite yummy
They scoffed the lot
and stuffed their tummies
and left behind
this plate all crummy
But oh, how, I laughed out loudly
When I found they’d eaten the wombat’s brownie

I’m writing this at the end of a fantastic day hosting Paul Cookson the performance poet, with shows and workshops at two local schools before back here at our church. Just before the show we discovered that our foodbank had accidentally given away our refreshments and decided that ‘The Foodbank Nicked My Cake’ would make a great title. Here’s my quick stab at this in pale imitation of Paul’s children’s verse. I’m afraid you’ll have to have been at his gigs to get the punchline…
(17.11.23)

© Ben Quant 2023
Photo by iMattSmart on Unsplash