History

Poem 600 – Hunting Hores

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Hunting Hores in Northam
Finding Fursdons of Fore Street
Hoping for Hugh’s headstones
In Margaret’s grand retreat
Unpicking John Lock’s locale
Crossing off Cross Street
Retracing the tracks of relies
And following their feet
We’re on an ancestry adventure
A holiday in time
And as we find their fingerprints
I’m turning it into rhyme

Day two of our holiday in Bideford. Today we headed into Northam to track down the in-law’s ancestors. And yes, the first surname has been the source of many jokes over time… (St. Margaret’s is the local church).
(06.08.25)

© Ben Quant 2025

Poem 599 – Bideford

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The sound of seagulls, coastal breeze,
a solace from the daily scene.
Here Tarka swims tugged by the tide
beneath the ancient long bridge wide,
and water babies also dive
deep waters, seeking Westward Ho!
But sadly three became undone,
three daughters died, for witchcraft hung.
But now, where rope makers wove their wares,
the sun shines down shedding our cares.

We arrived in Bideford today, a fascinating town with a tapestry of literary and historical connections.
(05 08.25)

© Ben Quant 2025

Poem 584 – Beware the Tech!

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This new fangled technology!
It’s not like back when we were young,
back then we talked to one another,
communicated face to face.
But now? They’re all distracted, dumb,
fixed stares, eyes down, lost in the page,
retreating from community;
the printing press has killed the art
of conversation. If this continues,
who knows the damage there could be!

I get worries about the impact of screen time, but at the same time, I suspect it’s all been said before…
(22.07.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Paul Hanaoka on Unsplash

Poem 541- New River Arms Reborn

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A rotting ruin, the old pub stood abandoned,
the juke box quiet, regulars forgotten,
its skeleton a ghostly shell left stranded.
As weeds burst through clay tiles and chimney pots
it seemed as if this plot had no more planned
than this, but mother nature had allotted
her resources, and soon this dead corpse breathed
again with saplings, lake and thriving reeds.

The site of a former local pub is being transformed as nature has its way.
(09.06.25)

© Ben Quant 2025

Poem 529 – Kirby Hall

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The rain comes down as soon as I
step from the car into its time.
The crying of a peacock lends
an eerie chill, disturbs my spine.

Forgotten gardens, ruined mansions,
midnight strolls and walking statues.
This shell reminds me of the dramas
that wrote the landscape of my childhood.

I half expect to see the ghost
of Queen Elizabeth drift by
the corner of my eye, as I,
survey the walls and roofless ceilings.

We walk in hushed, respectful tones
to navigate its sandstone bones,
and roam within its fading grandeur,
and marvel at this skeletal wonder.

Today we called in on Kirby Hall on the way to visit my parents. An amazing building.
(28.05.25)

© Ben Quant 2025

Poem 506 – Trading Colours

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I’m glad it did not rain on their parade,
and these old men and women could keep dry,
but somehow it seemed appropriate that the scenes
turned black and white under the gloomy clouds.

Although flags were flying and plastic hats
were worn adorned in red, white and blue,
this isn’t a day for celebration, rather
a day for quiet sombre recollection.

‘We must never forget’, a veteran said,
but as he did, the breaking news told us
of growing conscription in the Middle East
ahead of expanded operations in Gaza…

In the Ukraine the drones still buzz about,
Sudan’s still torn to bits by civil war,
and tariff tit-for-tats are lobbed like bombs.
I fear this is no time for flapping flags.

Maybe, it’s time to swap out national pride
for seeking peace. A holy man once said,
‘Love your enemies.’ If only we had
the imagination that this task requires.

Today marks the 80th Anniversary of VE Day.
(05.05.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Mark Leishman on Unsplash

Poem 494 – Fifty Two Years

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On April the twenty third I feel I ought,
To write a sonnet honouring the Bard.
In Fifteen Sixty Four our Will was born,
Living ’til Sixteen Sixteen when he died.
Between these only fifty two short years,
In which to write his dazzling magnus opus,
His folio of world renowned great verse,
Still uttered by the Thames in his wooden O.
Creator of so many memorable lines,
And author of now oft used turns of phrase,
The master of the magical use of rhyme,
With which he artfully captured our human ways.
So why’s today named after some brave knight
And not this bright composer of such delight!

A sonnet on St. George’s Day.
(23.04.25)

© Ben Quant 2025

Poem 436 – Nothing Changes

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Wandering through the city streets we noted
the men of war (all men) posturing upon the
capital’s many pillars and pedestals.
Testosterone fuelled, they thrust out chests and chins
and clambered upwards, competing to be highest.
Later, under Trafalgar’s column, we witnessed
politicians and pop stars gather in protest at
Putin’s bare-chested invasion of Ukraine.

Three years on from the invasion of Ukraine.
(23.02.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Borja Verbena on Unsplash

Poem 435 – The Other London

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Beneath these streets another London lurks
that secretly exerts its influence.
This realm is not inhabited by fae,
some Neverwhere or Long London, but born
of flesh and blood, the footsteps walked before us.

Laid in a myriad of layers, its culture
manipulates our lives, its stretching fingers,
reaching through our paths, our clothes and speech,
are inescapable, a net ensnaring
this famed landscape both for its good or ill.

I’m currently reading Alan Moore’s ‘The Great When’ – what a terrific book it is, in the great tradition of urban fantasy like Gaiman’s ‘Neverwhere’ and Clarke’s ‘Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell’. Strip away the fantasy, and I suspect these readings aren’t so far from reality.
(22.02.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Benjamin Davies on Unsplash