Nostalgia

Poem 356 – Nothing Is Forever, But…

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SONGS can be sonic portals, dioramas,
OF youthful memories long forgotten,
A door through which, released, our senses tumble,
LOST landscapes wherein we dance with arms outstretched,
a WORLD of angst yet somehow hopeful.

I’ve been listening to The Cure a lot recently, especially their latest album, the terrific ‘Songs of a Lost World’. Despite Robert Smith’s obvious awareness of aging and mortality, and their classic gothic sound, I find so much of their music strangely uplifting. (And yes, that is me in the photo…)
(17.11.24)

© Ben Quant 2024

Poem 311 – Sheep, Sleep, Dream

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Counting sheep?
That’s what we do when
we want to summon sleep.
We close our eyes and count
That bundle of black and white.

1, 2, 3…

And soon the bleating fades
Becoming clouds that float
In a dreamy eyelid landscape.
That one resembles a friend
I used to know before,
In a school that used to be
Big but now is small.

4, 5, 6…

The red bricks reconfigure
Become our childhood home.
We gather, play that game
We invented once, one lazy
Summer holiday.
I count, you run. We argue.
We laugh and laugh and laugh.

7, 8, 9…

My kite drifts higher and higher,
Outlined crisply against
The blue. I join it, weightless
And fly across the fields.
I’m met elsewhere by someone
Who doesn’t belong, not here, not now.
This interruption passes
Unnoticed. For now it makes sense.

10, 11, 12…

I’m pedaling on my bike,
Feeling great and weightless.
Roaming at will. Freedom.
I absorb the neighbourhood,
Visiting its corners,
Extremities and folds.
Its blanket smothers me.

13, 14, 15…

The face of a first girlfriend,
Holding hands, first kiss.
Long hair, guitars, the band.
Aspirations that
One day I’ll find that note
And take it around the globe.

16, 17, 18…

That sheep reminds me of
The teacher who inspired me.
See, that plant he gave me
Is growing up and up
like Jack’s beanstalk, it
devours it all. We run.

19, 20, 21…

It’s funny how the faces
We revisit, are all
The old ones, childhood ones.
Black devours white
until the morning light
brings day, and all’s forgotten.

52 and counting…

It’s National Poetry Day, and the theme is counting. I set out to write a poem about the Parable of the Lost Sheep, which is all about counting, but the poem wouldn’t have it and instead took me elsewhere. Poems do that. Not so long ago I was reminiscing with my parents, I guess that’s partly where this poem comes from – I’m 52 by the way. The older we get, the more we seem to spend in our childhood.
(03.10.24)

© Ben Quant 2024
Photo by Christopher Burns on Unsplash

Poem 297 – Fathers’ Snapshots

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I only know it’s me because it says so,
scribbled in blue biro in the corner;
a photo of a cardboard box with legs:
my legs, toddler legs, and shorts full of nappy.
Above the words ‘Solidev Ltd’, my eyes
and fingers peek through a crudely cut hole.

You tower over the top of the box, white shirt,
back buckled, a Seventies moustache upon your lip,
holding the box in place. My eyes are laughing.
Yours? They’re full of concentration as you
guide me across our manicured lawn towards
the camera, making sure I do not trip.

Later, those same hands propelled me as
I learned to ride, a love that now unites us.
The bike was secondhand but you repainted it,
made it new for me, and set me on my way.
Turning, your hands have gone, I’ve been released:
holding and letting go is a father’s task.

Next they’re teacher’s hands, hoiking children from
a writhing mass of bodies, only to find
me at the bottom. Your turn perhaps to want to
hide in a box? Alas there’s none, unlike
that time you proved you could do a headstand
inside one’s fragile walls – don’t try that now!

Next time hands and boxes mix, I’m married.
We’re on the move and you’ve kindly hired a van
and driven down to help us. I know how much
that stressed you out and yet you came regardless.
We work all day, the two of us, shifting
in silent concentration until it’s done.

Soon, another photo. No boxes now
but four generations: Grandad, Dad,
myself, my son. Like a flickerbook we move
through time as eyes are traced across the image
from left to right, and now we smile just like
our fathers’ captured faces did back then.

Dad’s birthday’s coming up and it’s got me reflecting on our past and some of its memorable snapshots.
(19.09.24)

© Ben Quant 2024

50 Years On…

Poem 288 – Colour Coded

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Do you remember the days when cowboys
wore colour coded hats?
It made life simple when the good guys wore white and the bad guys all wore black.

Back then you knew who to cheer for and
just who you were supposed to boo at,
so when Star Wars came out it messed with our heads,
despite dressing Darth Vader in black.

He was the baddie, so this made sense,
but what about his sidekicks,
All dressed in white from head to toe –
just what were we supposed to think?

And now there is Batman, a hero in black,
haunted by demons and grim,
and what about the Hulk, who’s green and fueled
by a rage that lies deep within.

The binary was burst, the black and white blended,
our heroes, their creators, reflect,
’cause inside we’re the same, you and I, and the rest,
a colourful, motive-mixed, mess.

At our weekly drop-in lunch at church today, I found myself reflecting on the dress code in old black and white westerns. This poem followed.
(10.09.24)

© Ben Quant 2024
Photo by Bailey Alexander on Unsplash

Poem 279 – Twenty-Five Years

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Twenty-five years,
three weddings and
too many funerals.

Baptisms in the garden,
sometimes warm,
but usually freezing.

Broxbourne foodbank,
winter night shelters,
Big Picnics at the park.

Soul Survivor,
Greenbelt,
weekends away.

Two schools and
numerous toddlers
toddlering.

Neverending rotas,
conversations,
unexpected meetings.

Five Advent candles –
so, who remembers
what they mean?

Pastoral visits,
Drop-In lunches
and nursing home services.

Three electric guitars
and three road bikes
pressed into service.

Church redevelopment
requiring prayer and
grants for funding.

So many faces,
places, emotions
and activities.

So many, so much
and yet throughout,
one God, one church, one family.

Today I celebrated 25 amazing years as minister at Wormley Free Church. What a privilege it’s been! These verses don’t do it justice, but I’ve loved being here and looking forward to where our life together as a church family takes us next.
(01.09.24)

© Ben Quant 2024

Poem 268 – Yesterday

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Yesterday
Our wedding day was many years away
Thirty of them to the very day
Oh, I believe in yesterday

Suddenly
Time has passed, how are we here today!
I’ve gained lines and look my hair’s gone grey
But I believe in yesterday

Troubles come and go
but I know you’re here to stay
when things go wrong, you stay strong
we hold on to yesterday

Hopefully
We’ll walk into the future, come what may
Knowing that our love won’t go away
‘Cause we believe in yesterday

A bit soppy/corny I know…
For Kate. Thank you.
(21.08.24)

© Ben Quant 2024

Poem 244 – Now I’m 52

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You know it’s your 52nd birthday
when you keep thinking it is Friday
when in fact it is Thursday.
Is my subconscious telling me
to simply skip over it?
Being an Englishman
I don’t know where to look
when people sing Happy Birthday,
how to configure my face,
or if I should join in.
You’d have thought I’d have
worked it out by now.
I celebrate by trimming nostril hairs
I never used to have and
stretching out stiff limbs.
Perhaps I’ll treat myself
to a proper coffee while I work.
As a child I received cards,
as an adult, thumbs up from Facebook.
Internet forums I once joined,
but have long since forgotten,
emerge from the mists of time
to offer congratulations.
Will I do the same one day?
A dusty poem popping up
in someone else’s Google search?
I do some sums.
Three score years and ten?
Just eighteen left;
that doesn’t sound so good.
Let’s change the parameters.
Doubling makes one hundred and four
and allows the same to come.
Possible? Perhaps.
And as every day’s a gift
and I’m a half-full glass guy
I’ll gratefully take every one.
Yes, happy birthday to me
and many more to come!

For some reason I’ve got it in my head that today’s Friday, when it’s Thursday, and more significantly (to me at least), my birthday…
(16.05.24)

© Ben Quant 2024
Photo by Becky Fantham on Unsplash (you may need to change your window shape/size to see the picture properly…)

Poem 205 – The Memories of a Time Traveller

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When I was little, time stretched out
but now I find the past, present
and future are condensed and tight.
From here, my former selves converge
just like a Doctor Who special.
I wonder how it ends?
                                                Perhaps
it’s like a concertina flow:
relax, compress, relax once more?
What if, however, it’s a black hole:
relax, compress, compress, compress?
Is there a memory time horizon
past which our recollections are
so dense they can’t escape?…
When I was young the wars seemed so
far back, but now they seem so close;
my parents seemed so old, but now
I find they were younger than I am today.
A year is but a month, a month
a week, a week a day, time slides,
and like a fairground hall of mirrors
the path’s confused and found distorted.
Within the glass I see the man
that I’ll become, imposed upon
the timefree boy I used to be.

As Doctor Who once famously said that time isn’t linear, but actually is, ‘like a big ball of wibbly wobbly… time-y wimey… stuff‘. Maybe it’s something to do with having passed the half-century, but I’m certainly finding this to be increasingly true.
(18.09.23)

© Ben Quant 2023
Photo by Mick Haupt on Unsplash

Poem 98 – Innocence

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Do you recall those hazy childhood days,
Those lazy endless freedom days outside?
The den we made together in the hedge,
Found at the bottom of our road, our world?
Behind it stood a farmer’s field in which,
We used to scatter, hide within the grain.
I wonder if he ever saw us there,
And turned a blind eye to our escapades?
The pylons, alien, stood tall and strong,
Tempting investigation but warnings,
Upon ‘the box’ made us fearful. Likewise,
We never played with matches, afraid of death.
This was our kingdom, on our bikes we reigned.
The rules were ours, no adults interfered,
Until exhausted, dinner called us home,
Across the border full of tales to tell.

Was it really as I remember it, with blue skies all year and endless hours to play? Probably not, but the sense of that is strong.
(26.02.22)

© Ben Quant 2022