Politics

Poem 781 – Four Years

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Four years of yearning, of young men sent to war,
since tanks on tracks raised trouble in the streets
and reason ran away as they rolled in.
Of mighty men who make games of all our lives,
who push people like pawns upon chess boards,
greedily grabbing land for their own gain.
Of tears that tear a track down mothers’ cheeks
and bombs that blow their boys to smithereens
and drones that down their unborn naive dreams.

On 24 February 2022 Russian forces entered the Ukraine marking the start of the current phase of the war between them. A poem in alliterative verse seemed an appropriate way to mark it, an ancient style to mark a modern conflict; somethings don’t really change.
(23.02.26)

© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Jade Koroliuk on Unsplash

Poem 761 – The Cultural Pot

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The circling critics mass with clicking keys,
headlines angrily declaring that,
the multicultural culinary dish is dead.
They clearly haven’t tried our bubble and squeak.

Today a Brit, a Turk and a Kuwaiti worked
together, serving food to English neighbours.
Their dishes? Cuisine cooked from diverse cultures,
a blend of ingredients derived from different nations.

And as they did they shared from a common pot
of love and conversation. Send them home?
If we did, we’d find we’re left with silence, vacant
plates and empty hearts; a menu of empty lines.

I had a lovely afternoon today working at our foodbank with two volunteers both of whom have come from our Conversation Cafe for those who speak English and a second language.
(14.01.26)

© Ben Quant 2026

Poem 737 – Ten Lines, Ten Minutes

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I only had ten minutes to trace the journey
from heaven to earth, the Word to flesh descending.
The Son becoming one with us for love
takes on our form, enters fragility,
and there is shunned. Pursued they flee,
the holy family, to Egypt’s bosom.
Asylum sought, by strangers saved, until
at last they can return. Can time compress
this sacrifice? Ten minutes can’t suffice,
but asks us if we’d welcome them today.

I had the privilege of preaching at a local church’s carol service today, and the challenge of compressing the awe and challenge of Christmas into just ten minutes. I thought I’d try again in ten lines.
(21.12.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Kevin Bückert on Unsplash

Poem 722 – A Smaller Sofa

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It’s funny how the small things make a difference.
Our new sofa is smaller than the last;
it means we’re sitting closer. I think that counts.
There are too many things in life that pull us
apart to let soft furnishings join in.

When we were children the old cliché applied,
a cardboard box meant hours of fun ahead.
We’d play all day confined within its walls,
they kept us close and working out the rules
required for us to live our lives together.

We’re too sophisticated now within
our isolated bubbles. Arms’ length is safe.
Lurking behind a username we seek
community simply with those like us.
Perhaps it’s time to buy a smaller sofa.

A conversation this week reminded me of Ben Elton’s observation of the changing definition of community from living with those around you who are different from you, to it being seeking it those who think the same a you. And it’s true, we have a new sofa.
(06.12.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Pavel Boltov on Unsplash

Poem 692 – Under Atatürk’s Gaze

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A rumble of thunder rolls across the bay.
A portent of trouble? Uncertainty ahead, and
before too long rainfall joins the fray.
Thankfully with rain coats packed we’re ready
and soon it stops, the sun returns, the grey
clouds drift away. We’re not deterred, instead
we step on out, we’re hopeful for the day
and making the most of being by the Med.
The sun emerges, shadows mark our way.
We walk past golden Atatürk the head
of modern Turkey, tall and proud, today
a statue under whose purview we tread.

A dicey looking day turned out well with a lovely walk into Marmaris along the coast.
(06.11.25)

© Ben Quant 2025

Poem 681 – Look At These Stones!

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Look at these stones!
They stand so proud, so strong, so powerful.
How could they ever fall or fail, these stones?
These men of steel, they’re always men it seems,
with dreams of empire celebrated by
their self-erected statues to their honour.

Look at these stones!
These city walls that reach up to the heavens!
These tall towers built on stocks and shares
that tear the timid down to clamber high.
Exchanging life for digits gleaned, they rise
demanding that we bow before them.

Look at these stones!
These AI gods we’ve built in silicon,
their algorithms fashioned in our image,
our blindness coded deep within their souls,
lurking unseen, unknown, because
we do not even know it in ourselves.

Look at these stones!
But even stones don’t last forevermore,
these brittle bones that break will fall away.
One day the oblivious wind will blow them down,
their monuments will fade, decay to dust,
and as the sun descends they’ll dissipate.

Look at these stones!
They are but sand and every one will pass.

This morning we reflected on Mark 13 in our service, in which Jesus responds to the disciples awestruck comments on seeing the Temple, surprising them by predicting its fall. It made me wonder what our stones are today.
(26.10.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Jaymon S on Unsplash

Poem 657 -Blessed are the Poets

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Blessed are the poets, those
Committed to verse not violence.
Blessed are the sonnet seekers,
The writers of limericks not slander.
Blessed are the hawkers of haikus
Over the dealers in harassment.
Blessed are the simile speakers,
The makers of metaphor not meanness.
Blessed are the rhymers, rhythm
Keepers, word smiths, dreamers, rappers,
Revealers of a world unseen.
Blessed are the poets.

Written on National Poetry Day, on a day of war in Gaza and Ukraine and an attack on a synagogue in Manchester, whilst the far right rises, and power seeking populists posture. Longing for a better world.
(02.10.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Trust “Tru” Katsande on Unsplash

Poem 650 – Truth

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A hidden beauty disguised beneath
time’s veil, erosion and graffitti,
tucked behind irrational fear and
under hope’s blind shadow sat.

Hatred rails against it, whilst
vainglorious proclamation rants,
but come what may, in quiet
stillness, unmoved and firm it stands.

But just because we wish its change
and close our eyes, place fingers into
ears and make such childish noises,
there is no metamorphosis.

And from its judgement seat the truth
returns our judgement back on us
and casts its verdict cold and clear,
untouched by lies and ignorance.

A response to recent assertions in the public arena.
(25.09.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Hennie Stander on Unsplash

Poem 632 – Cocktail Maths

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Can two and two make five?
Depends on who you ask.
A mathematician? No way!

George Orwell? Ask Big Brother…
A parent? Might seem so.
But me? I’m sure it can.

Mix two congregations
and stir to make a drink
tastier than the sum.

Or start a conversation
between two different lands,
and all will be enriched.

A single flag is good
but I prefer a mashup
of loads of different ones.

It’s been a good day! A joint service to start with, an afternoon conversation with friends from our Conversation Café, and praying for local asylum seekers to end the day.
(07.09.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Kobby Mendez on Unsplash