Politics

Poem 401 – Dreaming with Martin Luther King Jr.

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The changing of the guard
From old to over-ripe,
From male to male again,
From white to sort of white.

The pointing of the finger
At all ‘wrongs’ but your own.
The boasting in the playground,
The constant need to moan

A snatching of desires,
A bedeviling of the other,
A building up of walls,
An acceptance of the liar

It makes you wonder when
A proper change may come,
With hope for all the people,
To let us dream as one.

Today is Trump’s inauguration. Like many I am uneasy about the political implications. I can’t help but feel that rather than become great again, American has got stuck in some nightmare rut of alpha testosterone. (Today is also Main Luther King Day in America.)
(20.01.25)

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Photo by Stephen Walker on Unsplash

Poem 396 – A Time to Pray

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To speak of peace seems premature.
Don’t get me wrong, let’s celebrate
that shots might cease in Palestine
and missiles end and aid come in.
Let’s leap for joy at hostages’
release. However, that’s not new.
This land has known such ‘peace’ before.
True peace, shalom, salam is not
a lack of war, but no suspicion;
it isn’t tribulation’s end
instead its resolution.

News has been growing today of the long longed for ceasefire between Israel and Hamas.
(15.01.25)

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Photo by Dylan Shaw on Unsplash

Poem 355 – The Cusp

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Like learning to ride
With stabilisers removed,
Our world is wobbling,
Caught between losing control
And new equilibrium.

The days are shorter, leaves have fallen, and the temperature is dropping as we transition from autumn to winter. This is not the only change in the air.
(This poem is an attempt at a tanka, a Japanese form, like a haiku, but with lines of 5, 7, 5, 7, 7 syllables.)
(16.11.24)

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Photo by Liana S on Unsplash

Poem 354 – Bread and Cheese

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You brought bread and cheese you’d made.
We sat and ate and talked about
ourselves around this simple feast.
And as we ate we opened up
about our differences. We talked
about our cultures, tastes and dreams,
the things that make us us, and learnt.
Somehow, this daily act brought us
together, across the miles that lay
between us; it made us one. I wonder
why it sometimes seems so hard,
when all it takes is bread and cheese.

On Fridays we run our Conversation Cafe at church for people with English as a second language. It is a big highlight each week.
(15.11.24)

© Ben Quant 2024
Photo by Alla Hetman on Unsplash

Poem 351 – Abracadabra

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Sophie’s magic trick
“Masquerading as a male”
Fools Magic Circle

9th December 1991, the Magic Circle finally allowed women to join their ranks, only to find that one already had! Sophie Lloyd, disguised as Raymond, had earned her place. With the decision of the Circle she revealed her true identity, and was promptly kicked out… Now, the Circle is trying to find her again, in order to invite her back.
(12.11.24)

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Photo by Sergi Viladesau on Unsplash

Poem 350 – Eleven O’Clock

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Was there a moment when the bombing stopped,
that the world stood still and all fell silent?
Did the clouds pause in their heavenly paths,
the birds stop their song, and stand in branches?
Did rats and mice cease their scurrying
to survey the scene in curiosity?
The sergeant’s call to attention issued, the trees
no longer swayed but stood alert and upright.
Church organs held their breath, their anthems hanging
discordant, waiting to find their resolution,
while city hawkers gripped unfurled headline posters, the news as yet to be confirmed.

A poem for Armistice Day.
(11.11.24)

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Photo by Diana Parkhouse on Unsplash

Poem 349 – Remember

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Pin on the poppies
Line up the flags

Lay out the wreaths
Grieve for the past

Stand still in silence
Remember the dead

Hold onto our history
Learn from those left

I had the privilege today of speaking at our local Scout Group’s Remembrance Sunday event.
(10.11.24)

© Ben Quant 2024

Poem 344 – Fawkes’ Face

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We are surrounded by so many faces.
I play the game of guess the nationality.
Sometimes I get it right but most not.
‘That’s an American’ becomes a Swede;
the Pole is Portugese; the Irish, Dutch,
the ‘dead-cert German’, a Geordie; and every
other transpires to be a Liverpudlian.
On this day when we remember Guido,
perhaps this ambiguity matters most.

There is great people watching to be had at the hotel at mealtimes…
(05.11.24)

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Poem 327 – Selina

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For such a time as this
a woman placed perfectly
within the social web.

Restricted by her sex
but bold in faith and hope,
she rejected expectation.

Ensnared by Love she weaved
compassionately a net
to catch her wary peers.

With tea and conversation
she welcomed with her chaplain
noble and politician.

Meanwhile the miner, unschooled
children, the poor and sick,
also received her care.

And as this web was woven
a grace filled spell was cast
entrancing church and country.

I’ve been reading up on the finder of our church’s movement, Selina, the Countess of Huntingdon. What a remarkable woman, to me, the Esther of her age. She deserves to be remembered so much more than she is – and a better ode than this!
(19.10.24)

© Ben Quant 2024
Photo: Selina Hastings, Countess of Huntingdon by Unknown artist oil on card, circa 1770 NPG 4224 © National Portrait Gallery, London. Used with permission.

Poem 320 – Next Time…

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The annual attempt to represent
my life within the cellular confines
of an excel spreadsheet.

My comings in and goings out
laid down in stark columns of numbers
and totalled up for all to see.

It’s hard to get excited about
the number of cups of tea, and stamps,
and miles I have consumed.

And so as the deadline looms
I strain to recollect exactly
what I did a year ago.

There, it’s done. Click send and breathe.
Now it’s in the accountant’s hands.
Next time, I promise, I’ll do it earlier.

With the end of the tax year falling near Easter, despite good intentions, I never quite get around to filling in my tax returns when I know I should…
(12.10.24)

© Ben Quant 2024
Photo by Olga DeLawrence on Unsplash