At last the day is done!
But won? I don’t know, it’s seemed
A death by a thousand niggles.
The start that set the tone?
Ambushed by traffic lights!
A fight to get things done,
Last minute calls then some…
Who parked that Volvo there!
Beware if I find out…
I doubt you understand
But I could SHOUT!
And yet apocalyptic
Fun and food and traitors
Cap the day. I won.
It’s been one of the days until the end.
(22.10.26)
© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Samuel Regan-Asante on Unsplash
Not fixed, memory is a malleable thing,
It swells and slips, elusive glides and flows,
Like clouds that drift upon the wind.
The views, once clear, become obscured by mists
that landward flow from shifting tide to hide
the fading touch of a departed’s kiss.
But who’s to say that what we sense is false,
that mutating recollections are a lie
and that our limited minds are at fault?
Perhaps what matters is what’s left behind,
the present impact, generous or unkind?
Reflecting on my memories ahead of a funeral tomorrow, and how our recollections of people fluctuate and change, I’m left wondering if that really matters. Where do we find meaning and truth if all we ever know is filtered by interpretation?
(08.10.26)
© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Ian Wetherill on Unsplash
With time the waves erode
the definition of
your features. Self begins
to trickle with the tide.
Odd names become flotsam
adrift and unattached,
whilst conversations wash
repeatedly on the shore.
But even as the castle
walls begin to fall
your parting hug remains
reassuringly true.
(26.09.26)
An oak, or ash or pine, the basic mold,
An individual fingerprint of grain.
We see the bark, the bare exterior,
Stark trunk and fluttering leaves providing tone.
But deep beneath this personal skin there lies
A cavernous world of echoing influence,
Tracing beyond the individual tree,
It stretches out to weave through time and place.
These reaching roots slip out across the water,
Beyond tectonic plate and culture’s haste,
Like eels drawn home to their elusive Sargasso,
We all swim back and are bound to distant Adam.
Working tonight with Who Do You Think You Are in the background spawned these verses.
(09.09.26)
© Ben Quant 2026
A younger you stares from the screen,
Straight lines across your top and teeth.
A smile of satisfaction spreads
From side to side, the awkward grin
Of early teenage years. Descending
From innocent hands a chain
Of felt balls that you’ve gently stabbed
Into existence, a blend of love
and violence. It is a scene
So often seen, the joy of craft
And creation. But look – just as within
The first there lurks a snake, awake
to every opportunity,
one eye alive, prepared to strike.
Google reminded me of this photo today. It made me smile…
(03.09.26)
© Ben Quant 2026
Coming to an end
A basketful of memories
Taking them beyond
Last day of Greenbelt before it takes a year off and relocates. We’re ‘letting it all go’ or maybe not.
(30.08.26)
© Ben Quant 2026
Surviving portaloo roulette
And alcohol rub on broken skin,
Finding faith and hope in doubt,
And old friends, new friends, heavenly kin.
Chatting with the poet Paul
(See I can name drop too although
Predictive text turned that into
Babe drop but that’s no place to go).
Martin Joseph apologising
To George whilst summoning the sun,
Avoiding all the forecast rain
Until it all came all at once.
Singing Bohemian Rhapsody in
The dark until the power returned,
Helping strangers push their buggies
Stuck in the post-storm muddy churn.
Singing along with men from Leith,
The main stage headline show
All treasure found in the field beneath
Us even as we let it go…
Some if the highlights from today’s Greenbelt.
(28.08.26)
© Ben Quant 2026
The perfect tonic
An evening spent with good friends
Making time stand still
A lovely evening.
(18.08.26)
© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by OurWhisky Foundation on Unsplash
He sees her canine companion and asks
if he may stroke it. She says yes
and soon they’re talking, clicking, smiling.
Names are exchanged, one Brit, one Greek,
but alas this is her stop. She panics.
Are you on Facebook? No, he says,
but by now the doors are closing down
on alternatives and what could be.
Meanwhile, in another carriage she pouts,
arranges her hair and lips and lashes,
and purring, poses for her phone
(it’s neatly perched between her nails).
She loves it and hopes the feeling’s mutual.
It’s safe at least and undemanding,
but underneath she hungers for
the danger of uncertainty.
I love people watching on the tube. These were both scenes I saw on a journey today `although they weren’t simultaneous as the poem suggests. The contrast between them was fascinating.
(26.07.26)
© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Belinda Fewings on Unsplash
Today I buried Reynard,
Enjoyed a coffee in Spoons,
And was mistaken for Thomas Tuchel.
Today I sat beneath,
A ghostly barn owl fly-past,
And partial rusty moon.
Today has been surreal,
Disturbing and exciting,
And sometimes awe-inspiring
A long and busy day.
(20.07.26)
© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Lou Barros on Unsplash
