A week or two has passed
and all is as we left it.
The TV hasn’t fallen,
or damp stains reappeared,
or furniture collapsed.
My DIY has lasted
longer than Liz Truss.
I can announce I have
a strong and stable cabinet!
Much to my relief, returning after Greenbelt, the DIY is as I left it.
(26.08.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
What is it that makes you think
that you can wave our flag,
and stand on behalf of us,
and shout angrily in our name?
What is it that makes you think
that we need protecting from
young children and families
who’ve fled from foreign lands?
Does it make you feel big to send
the fearful to hide in their rooms
for safety, when they came
looking for refuge here?
But even as I type
I find that I must pause,
realise my frailties,
and look beyond the waves.
Underneath perhaps the same
uncertainties play out,
as old securities
are lost and all’s at sea.
O, still, small voice of calm,
If only we could reach
beyond the rhetoric
of populist and paper.
Forgive our foolish ways.
On Friday I cycled through protests at our local asylum seeker hotel. I found myself feeling angry at what was going on, angry at the impact this would be having on the people I know there. This poem started as an angry response at those who didn’t take time to think about the humanity of those they were targeting, but was I guilty of becoming what I was accusing them of?
(17.08.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by balesstudio on Unsplash
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
The other night we gathered.
Not around a fire like
our predecessors but
around the table with
the plan of telling tales.
We started with the story
of our days. We shared frustrations
our triumphs, hopes and dreams;
wielding brushes to paint
the scene we wanted seen.
And then our make-believe.
A painting of a haunted house
investigated by
our alter-egos, bravely
searching for the truth.
Its strange, but when I hang
these portraits side by side,
there’s no denying that
the brushstrokes are the same.
Two different worlds connected.
Today the news, more stories.
A splash of colour here
a daub of darkness there,
all vying for opinion,
surreal, unreal or real?
Stories within stories.
Landscapes created by
our conflict. Colours clash
and mix, until we find
some truth emerging from them.
What is truth? I suspect that’s the question of our age. I’m increasingly aware of how we reveal and hide the truth within the stories that we tell.
(20.03.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Ahmed Raza Kz on Unsplash
My weapon is a melody,
My sharp sword is a verse,
My prayer a faithful missile fired
Across the universe.
Imagination changes lives,
And poems are armed with dreams,
Guthrie’s guitar killed fascists, yes
The truth will set us free.
The opening line came from today’s prayer meeting, which sparked off thoughts of Guthrie and The Notting Hillbillies version of The Weapon of Prayer.
(17.03.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Image: Al Aumuller/New York World-Telegram and the Sun (uploaded by User:Urban), Public domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Woody_Guthrie_2.jpg
Our lawn has been infested
by violets, a swarming purple.
Next will come white daisies
and bohemian dandelions.
A lone daffodil has
somehow found its way,
but now the sun is out
they’ll start to come en masse.
Bluebells ring amidst a
daze of forget-me-nots.
Wild cyclamen appear
even a stray red strawberry.
These immigrants attract
bees and other insects,
troublemakers buzzing
in tongues I cannot speak.
Be sure it won’t stop there.
No, before you know it
they’ll flock, the birds and bats
and butterflies and crickets.
Every sound and language
under the sun will surround us;
a multitudinous riot
of culture, colour and song.
I fear for my children, they
will never know the past:
our English gardens’ green
and monocultural grass.
The more I talk to those of other countries living here, the more I see the beauty around me.
(14.03.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by virginia lackinger on Unsplash
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
A waltz can be stopped
when one partner sits down,
but for a dance to be danced
both partners are needed.
A war can be caused
by the actions of one,
but for peace to be peace
both parties are needed.
After the news of Trump’s calling Putin about the end of the war in Ukraine, I’m hoping his approach is more than mere appeasement.
(13.02.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Marko Zirdum
I have two eyes.
They’re the only eyes
I’ve ever had.
My eyes are hazel.
My eyes are white,
My eyes are male,
And middle class.
I wonder what
I’d look like with
Two different ones?
I wonder how
I’d see the world
And how the world
would see me if
My eyes were black,
My eyes were gay
My eyes were female
My eyes were rich
Or working class?
I have two eyes.
They’re the only eyes
I’ve ever had
I must remember
That they come
In different types
And mine are mine alone.
It’s been a fascinating day spent with people of a whole range of cultures and backgrounds.
(07.02.25)
We’ve seen the rubble,
The shattered lives
And hospitals.
We’ve seen demolished
Dreams, and
Universities.
Good news my friend,
We have decided
To lend a hand.
Let us take over;
Kick back your feet,
Relax and sleep,
While we send in
The bulldozers
To build a mall,
Hotels that gleam,
Landscaping and
A golfing green.
What’s that you say?
Don’t worry about,
Just where you’ll live.
I’m sure someone
Will put you up
Somewhere, somewhen,
And hopefully,
When they do,
You’ll have a good view,
Of our brand new,
gleaming neighbourhood.
An instinctive response to Trump’s latest declaration.
(05.02.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Courtney Cook on Unsplash
Ode for the Day 
