Peas and sweetcorn in the trees,
Occasionally baked beans in between.
Goodness knows who has the reach,
But in a week or two, the plates will be clean!
A silly verse continuing the autumnal theme, which came to mind as I walked to a meeting at school this morning.
(22.10.24)
© Ben Quant 2024
Photo by Isabella Struck on Unsplash
The dying light briefly tinges treetops
with a bronze flourish, a terracotta tone,
suggestive of the summer past. Catching
the yellow leaves, it hints of a reprieve.
It is, however, only momentary,
a briefest farewell kiss before departure,
a passing gesture to sustain us through
the coming darkness, until Spring’s dawn.
Looking out of my window this evening, the sky turned the objects a slightly otherworldly colour tonight, just before darkness descended. A companion piece to yesterday’s poem.
(20.10.24)
© Ben Quant 2024
Photo by Uta Scholl on Unsplash
The day withdraws as autumn’s slumber starts.
We retreat, donning our pyjamas early.
The lights are turned off, peripheral at first,
as the world compresses to just our living room.
A short poem today to go with the shortened days.
(20.10.24)
© Ben Quant 2024
Photo by Kristian Seedorff on Unsplash
Last night the Northern Lights stepped out, came south,
a holiday for celestial phenomena,
illuminating skies with swirling swathes
of dancing reds and pinks and greens and yellows.
A one night only premier played out
to astonished audiences gazing upwards who,
gasping, reached for phones and cameras
to capture this extraordinary event.
It seems the entire country stood in rapture,
entire that is except for one, yes me.
I sat inside writing about heaven
oblivious to it prancing around my head.
As it says. Trust me to spend the one night they came my way inside writing sermons in blissful ignorance. Gutted.
(11.10.24)
© Ben Quant 2024
Photo by Joshua Woroniecki on Unsplash
Bulbous bombs of water
explode on contact with
the ground, or windows, or clothes.
Penetrating cover
and piercing any armour,
they always find a way.
Skin momentarily holds them,
keeps them back, but in
the end even this is
futile and our bodies
become infiltrated.
It’s raining outside. We have a leak at church.
(08.10.24)
© Ben Quant 2024
Photo by Eutah Mizushima on Unsplash
All was dark in the moment beforehand
As if only we were abroad
But somewhere a whisper awakens
Bidding workers to attend to their chores
Stoke up the furnace ’til it’s ready
Then prize open its door just a crack
So a halo of pink might outline roofs
Now released, there’s no holding back
Its torrent boils over the floodgates
Pours into the skies in a flash
A writhing of rust and vermillion
Persimmon and cadmium clash
It’s urgency rages in anger
Like a blazing volcano erupts
It’s fierce stallions charge onwards relentless
Against night’s forces resisting its thrust
The darkness regrouping intensifies
Its blackness seems blacker than the grave
But nothing can hold back dawn’s progress
Triumphant its glories cascade!
As fast as the battle was opened
Dawn’s turmoil is over and done
Morning’s light is finally upon us
Its peace has been violently won
I enjoyed revisiting one of first poems the other day, and so decided to do it again today with ‘Poem 5 – Sunrise‘ from 12.10.21, again reworking its rhythm and trying some rhyme.
(29.09.24)
Seeking solace in numbers, they flock together,
Perched on the edge of clefts and aisles and chairs,
Whilst down below their mates peck through the clothes.
Though close, they never acknowledge each other’s presence,
Except perhaps a brief shared nod between them,
In recognition of their mutual plight.
And as each female emerges to the flock,
They twitter, preening hair, and staking claims,
Puffing their chests and hoping that she’s theirs.
There’s always great people watching to be had in shopping centres…
(28.09.24)
© Ben Quant 2024
Photo by Denver Saldanha on Unsplash
A cat has taken up residence in our garden.
They didn’t ask, they simply chose their spot
and stayed without a please or by your leave.
Each day they laid there as still as the ground below,
until yesterday, when they saw a squirrel.
Transformed, they moved by quantum mechanics from here
to there seemingly in one instantaneous
blurry blip, Schrödinger’s cat on ‘speed’.
Luckily, for every action there’s an equal and opposite
reaction, and Newton squirreled the squirrel away.
I think we’ve been adopted. I don’t know if it’s a stray or domestic cat that’s simply taken a liking to our garden, but it’s certainly staked it’s claim.
(20.09.24)
© Ben Quant 2024
Photo by Jaël Vallée on Unsplash
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
The early morning sun rises at we do,
shivers then casts its rays upon our windows,
revealing in their panes the evidence
of life that has pressed itself against their glass.
These traces sparkle under its caress,
lit up in brilliant white to make us blush.
A delicate weave with downward threads outlined
like the curving paths of stars in timelapse captured.
A smear from Reynard’s tail when jumping the fence.
Paw marks made by a mad squirrel seeing
a rival in his face reflected there.
The outline of a feathered angel captured
transfigured in a momentary pose.
These illuminated memories shine
but briefly; all too soon the spell has passed.
I should be embarrassed by state of our windows, but when the autumn sun shines on them, something beautiful is revealed. (UPDATE: A few have asked me who the Reynard is that appears in a few of my poems. He’s a trickster fox from stories starting in mediaeval times. See https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Reynard_the_Fox)
(13.09.24)
© Ben Quant 2024
Photo by Richie Bettencourt on Unsplash
Ode for the Day 
