Politics

Poem 460 – Let Me Paint You a Picture

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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

Poem 457 – Armed with Art

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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

Poem 454 – Look Out For The Flowers

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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

Poem 436 – Nothing Changes

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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

Poem 425 – It Takes Two

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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

Poem 419 – Eyes

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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)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by v2osk on Unsplash

Poem 417 – Welcome to the Neighbourhood

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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

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)

© Ben Quant 2025
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)

© Ben Quant 2025
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)

© Ben Quant 2024
Photo by Liana S on Unsplash