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 218 – I’m A Winging It Man

                                                                I’m a
winging it man, no pressure, a just in time fella,
you must just trust your guts, no sweat, don’t fret.
We’ll get there in the end if I don’t send
you round the bend before we wend our way
towards our final destination.
                                                            I need
a deadline to demand my desperate
attention, to draw together inspiration.
There’s nothing like a red line in the diary
to generate that sense of do or die and
finally draw together focus.
                                                                    However,
I must remember others work differently than I do
planning out the when and where and why to,
pinpointing places, stages, steps and times.
Maybe, perhaps I ought to be more pliant,
and for our sake give it a try too.

As we head into Advent, in my line of life it begins to get rather busy with deadlines hunting in packs. Sometimes I wish I was one of those more organised types, but I fear I tend towards working on one thing at a time and a lot of flying by the seat of my pants. Whilst I find this last minute chaos generally works for me, I’m aware that those who are of a more thinking ahead of time nature can find it difficult if not infuriating! Right now, I’m living on adrenaline.
This one’s an experiment in over the top, repeated an obvious rhyming. To be spoken aloud and fast.
(25.11.23)

© Ben Quant 2023
Original photo by Kelly Sikkema on Unsplash

Poem 216 – The Foodbank Nicked My Chocolate Cake

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

Poem 215 – Waiting for the Poet

I’m waiting for the poet
I’m twiddling my toes
I’m impatient don’t you know it
just walking to and fro
I hope he won’t be long now
’cause he’s coming to my home
and I fear I may have broke it
by adopting an rather awkward rhyming scheme
that doesn’t really flow as it should

Excited to have Paul Cookson, an inspiration for me with his daily poems, coming to stay tonight before before visiting our local schools and then doing a gig in the evening for us. …He arrived just as I wrote the last line!
(16.11.23)

© Ben Quant 2023
Photo by 13on on Unsplash

Poem 200 – The Wedding Dance Floor

Last night I danced all night.
Today I have no voice
and blisters on my toes
to witness my exploits.
It may have been a case of
defiant dad dancing
but do I care? Do I?
No, not at all! For those
few hours I lost myself
within the moment.

Earlier this month I had the joy of attending the wedding of a couple I know through church. It was a wonderful day for a wonderful couple. The disco was great fun too – I only hope I didn’t put others off… I wrote this at the time and have finally dusted it off and made it presentable.
(30.08.23)

© Ben Quant 2023
Photo by Greyson Joralemon on Unsplash

Poem 199 – Greenbelt Portaloo Roulette

A midnight queue
to use the loo
the final act has faded.

Where could it be,
this lavatory,
on which my bum descended?

A Kettering field
in which we yield,
our hearts and minds upended

A place of grace
but a trial I face
‘cos without a trace
the toilet roll has ended!

Greenbelt Festival is home to me, a place I’m pulled back to year after year to meet friends, have my soul restored, and enjoy a thoroughly good time. This year was no exception. The combination of talks, music, camping, and yes, poetry, is good for me. Home now, I’m missing it all, all that is except the portaloos…. Here’s one written at the end of Saturday night.
(29.08.23)

© Ben Quant 2023

Poem 196 – These Boots…

These boots were made for walking,
for crawling, breaking, brawling,
for stomping, splashing, stalking,
for marching and for talking.

These boots were made for posing
for goth and skinhead moping,
for teenage angst and pouting,
for kicking cans and shouting.

These boots were made for fighting,
for heavy metal striding,
for lasting and maturing,
for polishing, enduring.

I recently acquired my first pair of Doc Martens. As a teen I always fancied a pair, it’s taken a while… They’re quite wonderful, although as my blisters attest, they’re in need of breaking in. Not sure I’ll use them for fighting though!
(10.08.23)

© Ben Quant 2023

Poem 157 – Was George Lying?

I wake to find the sun still hid away,
    And wonder where. Begin to search it out.
It’s simultaneously both night and day.
    Question: how are the laws of physics flouted?
    It surely must be somewhere hereabouts!
This darkness grips me, makes me feel entombed,
And isolated, life sucked from the room.

My shrill alarm sounds like a countdown’s end,
    Is this some childish game of hide and seek?
This daily madness drives me round the bend,
    ‘I’m coming!’ I cry, as if I now compete,
    And bleary eyed I stumble, weary feet,
Into the bathroom where I pull the light.
Insipid! This won’t set the night to flight…

Still adrift I sit behind the wheel.
    Ignition turned then mirrors checked and drive,
Into the line of mo(u)rning cars that feel
    Deadened, numb, yes anything but alive,
    Striving to find some way we might survive.
Grumbling that our work is never done, we
Feel the lie that’s sung, ‘here comes the sun’.

I’ve been dipping into Stephen Fry’s ‘The Ode Less Travelled‘ again, a great introduction to the nature of poetry, particularly metre, form and rhyme. Rhyme is something I have generally avoided, in my hands it becomes something twee and distracting, but he’s persuaded me to give it another go. Here’s an offering in rhyme royal form. It was dark this morning when my wife went to work…
(09.01.23)

© Ben Quant 2023

Poem 148 – New Glasses

A new morning
A new month
A new razor
Feeling smooth
New glasses
A new look
I put them on
Everything’s moved
A little sharp
A little close
A little blurred
All’s confused

Picked up new glasses today having become aware that my prescription was slightly off. A little readjustment’s required!
(01.12.22)

© Ben Quant 2022

Poem 144 – Our Sweet Universe

Our Galaxy’s a Bounty to behold
The Milky Way like Magic in the Black
From Mars to where the Stars Burst bright all night
And Celebrations ring for Heroes bold
Who Flying Saucers into Orbit take
To find a Feast of planetary Gold

A quick poem for my Dad’s poetry group who wanted something fun about planets.
(09.11.22)

© Ben Quant 2022