History

Poem 886 – Selina

/ BenDQ / Leave a comment

I see her familiar face across the room.
Head resting on her hand she is distracted,
her mind on matters out of sight to me.
The casual nature of her arm appears
a little forced, her back is straight, her face
is stern, it’s almost as if she has to brace
herself to pause; I want to speak and make
her stop and slow, to cease her constant churn
and yet, although I’ve known her for so long,
she knows me not at all and never will.

Inspired by a portrait of Selina, the Countess of Huntingdon, who founded the movement of churches I am part of.
(19.05.26)

© Ben Quant 2026

Poem 883 – London’s Ghosts

/ BenDQ / Leave a comment

Beating the streets of London,
The hidden alleyways
That wind forgotten paths
Through secret green oases,
Ecclesiastical memories,
And tributes to the past.
Pondering their names,
That clenched, hold onto lost
Recollections of youth,
Professions now obscure,
Which thereby host the ghosts
Of history beneath my feet.
Their signs bear witness to
The ones who walked before.

We’ve been exploring London today ahead of an evening at The Globe. As always fascinated by the glimpses of the past to be found at every turn.
(16.05.26)

© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Jacob Smith on Unsplash

Poem 868 – Albion’s Soul

/ BenDQ / Leave a comment

May Day, prepare for morris dancers,
bearded men and women (beardless)
armed with tankards, sticks and hankies,
legs adorned with chiming bells.

Here comes the Fool, their ball spinning
around their head before they strike
a member of the public un-
awares. Result? A raucous riot.

And then the Squire, the headman of
this rustic troop, who seeks to steer
them through their ancient dance that streams
throughout Old England’s leafy years.

It is no Riverdance or gold
Bolero, there’s no Nureyev
nor Sleep in sight, it’s out of date,
a clumsy, awkward, fading light.

Yet in the laughter lies an anchor,
in ritual, hazel arms that reach
to hazy days of yesteryear
and Albion’s soul and beating heart.

Our country is full of strange traditions that somehow linger on despite changing culture and lives. Their charm lies, perhaps, in a sense that they tie us to something that our modern lives have lost.
(01.05.26)

© Ben Quant 2026

Poem 820 – The British Museum

/ BenDQ / Leave a comment

Bewildering corridors disorien-
tate,
cause us to lose all sense of
direction, anchor in time and place.
Down
ancient rabbit holes we
plunge, exploring other
worlds. Past
sarcophagi
and samurai
we twist
and turn
until
a burst of light and space
and caffeine smells and shops
and tripping out into
a parallel dimension,
full of busy streets
and bulging bright red buses.

Had a lovely time today exploring the wonders of the British Museum with friends. What an amazing place.
(14.03.26)

© Ben Quant 2026

Poem 810 – Lost Wor(l)ds

/ BenDQ / Leave a comment

Forgotten words no longer used,
a language of the past that haunts
our tongue, I tenderly trace your text
and search your shapes in hope of meaning.

Were these passages profound
in thought, philosophy supreme,
or simply shopping lists and gossip,
our daily scratched humanity?

Did you think like us and dream
upon the page, playing with words
simply for the sake of it?
Or were your words just functionary?

One day, these words I’m typing now
will also be forgotten, echoes
of a long gone world, and merely
reproduced lines upon the screen.

When meaning is no longer known,
our sounds silenced, shorn of sense,
when words are gone do we fade too
like aging pencil on the page?

A new challenge for the year, I’ve decided to try and learn to read Old English, intrigued by the connections between our tongue and theirs.
(04.03.26)

© Ben Quant 2026
Photo first lines of Beowulf from the damaged Nowell Codex courtesy of Wiki Commons

Poem 799 – In Hoc Signo Vinces

/ BenDQ / Leave a comment

Whilst marching with your men, a mighty vision
rose up in the sky, a sign above the Sun.
Both crisp and clear this vision of the cross
emboldened you, bright burning with the order,
go forth and in hoc signo vinces.

‘Born again’, baptised by Eusebius
and strident with new faith, you set to war
the cross enshrined on shining shields and
having defeated all who fought your fearsome sword, you sit serene upon your throne.

But in your daring did you ever doubt
such conquest by the cross of Christ who sought salvation not by sword but sacrifice?
This man made mighty by humility,
his love will ever stand above your reign.

Outside York Minster sits a statue of Constantine, the Roman Emperor who’s ‘conversation’ led to Christendom, the joining of the power of the state to the church.
(21.02.26)

© Ben Quant 2026

Poem 798 – York Minster

/ BenDQ / Leave a comment

This mighty edifice imposes itself upon
the horizon, a brutal slab of stone. It thrusts
into the sky distorting gravity;
we stand before its feet and sway.

Above an array of monarchs, saints and grotesques
stare down at us, distorted faces worn
by age and weather. Their bulging eyes follow
our fleeting lives that form and fade with the wind.

For the last few days, York Minister has been the dramatic backdrop to our lives, what an amazing building.
(20.02.26)

© Ben Quant 2026

Poem 792 – Docklands

/ BenDQ / Leave a comment

The monuments of modernity stand upon
her ancient paths, a maze of old and new.
We walk its ways and marvel at a myriad
of serendipitous finds and juxtaposition.
Amongst its mighty towers lurk the docks
of yesteryear, those ghostly shades that haunt
the shadows of today. Lost sailors swearing
mingle with the traffic and creaking masts
join with her driverless trains and thronging shops.
Overhead the timeless seagulls call.

We returned to Canary Wharf today for a lovely Valentine’s lunch and wander around the Docklands Museum.
(14.02.26)

© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Nick Page on Unsplash

Poem 746 – The Three Sisters

/ BenDQ / Leave a comment

Three sisters, booted, in their Sunday frocks.
The youngest pouts, disgusted by her lot,
her hair a spiky scrunch, too short for bunches.
The jersey thrust on her causes her to hunch.
Is it a disguise for a mess that lies beneath?
Inside an anger brews, beware of its release…

The middle stands with shoulders back, chest out,
a face that boasts I’m beautiful and proud.
You can tell she’s used to getting her own way,
there’s a quizzical look in her eyes as if to say,
I wonder what it’s like to live like you,
a life where others tell you what to do…

The last child bends, she knows the weight that comes
from the expectation laid on the oldest one.
To rub it in the middle is the belle –
she wouldn’t say it but the oldest knows it well –
instead, with pencil clenched she etches out
her sister’s eyes when no-one else is about.

Three sisters, booted, in their Sunday frocks,
this sepia picture puts them in the dock,
and there we’ve stared at them and weighed their deeds,
a judgement forged from imaginary feats.
Extrapolating from this snapshot caught in time,
where would you stand within this awkward line?

This photo was unearthed as part of my wife’s family tree research. What a wonderfully expressive trio of faces demanding to be interpreted. I didn’t mean for this one to rhyme, but it just came out that way – does it work or just make it twee? I’m not sure, perhaps reading it again in the morning will answer that one!
(30.12.25)

© Ben Quant 2025

Poem 736 – Erebus

/ BenDQ / Leave a comment

The glare. The glistening glass that cloaks the sky.
The ice erupts, our eyes afire burn
with blinding brightness born of cold. We freeze.
Our hardened hands are cut, by sharpness hurt,
as numbed we notice not that time is stopped;
my dire realm reversed from darkened depths
to a fiercesome land of frightening light and frost.
We sail until we’re stilled by the sight of smoke
issuing forth from the volcanic crest that carves
the skyline. Awestruck and silent we kneel and pray.

I’ve been reading Erebus by Michael Palin, about the ship Erebus babe after the Greek God of the underworld. This dramatic scene as she sailed in search of the south pole caught my attention.
(20.12.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by GV Chana on Unsplash