Today, all day,
I sat in a meeting
And found myself
Wondering
Wouldn’t it
be more fun
If someone was
A traitor…
From time to time
We’d break into
Subcommittees
And scheme
And then we’d draw
Our pens and cast
A suspect out
Before
The constitution
Affords the traitor
A chance to veto
Someone’s voice.
After a six hour meeting, it was good to come home and catch up with Traitors, a complete contrast!
(11.01.25)
I’ll never forget the day you locked yourself
out of the house. You called for help – I came.
I broke into your bathroom by climbing onto
the garage roof and squeezing through your window.
Briefly, I hooked my belt around the latch,
which threatened to leave me undressed and hanging.
A deep sense of determination was written
on your face, reminding me of Mount
Rushmore, resolute and irresistible,
a pervading positivity that said
‘this can be done, let’s make the most of it’.
Pragmatic stoicism served you well.
But in your eyes I saw hidden emotion.
I saw your caring check of those around you
and presiding pride in friends and family.
You held my eyes, revealed intelligence,
weariness, frustration at all you’d lost,
until the last page was turned and Wordle done.
Setting out the chairs today felt wrong
as one was in your place – a weekly reminder,
as if one’s needed. Soon we’ll say goodbye.
Ever thoughtful, you’ve told us what you want.
Not wearing black, we’ll celebrate as one
a resolute life in story and joyful song.
Over Christmas we lost a long-term member of our weekly lunch at church. We’ll miss her. I met with the family today ahead of the funeral. These verses emerged from our conversation.
(07.01.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by 🇸🇮 Janko Ferlič on Unsplash
Opening the covers,
the end seemed far away,
but now the pages turn
more quickly; the epilogue
is closer than the start.
I long to read your lines
more deeply, to understand
their meaning and import,
so that our entwining lives
may be mutually enriched.
When all is said and done,
when the story has been told,
let it be known that I’ve
known love and fully loved,
for love’s our one true end.
Following on from yesterday’s poem and The Cure’s latest album.
‘And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love’ (1 Corinthians 13:13).
(18.11.24)
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
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)
© Ben Quant 2024
If only could go back and remix my life
so that it sounded like it was always meant to.
I could boost the passion, dial back the doubts,
urge myself forwards, embrace life more deeply.
I remember one quip in the playground, spoken
in haste and forty years on I still regret it.
Perhaps I could bring it down in the mix, so quiet
its shame is no longer heard, its punch not felt.
A pause could be inserted, allowing me
to think before I wrote that thoughtless letter.
The words were driven by the selfish moment,
and didn’t really reflect my ongoing feeling.
I’d certainly turn up my decisions for you, get out
out of my comfort zone, increase the effort.
In hindsight the focus needs to be shifted, like all
guitarists I tend to make it all about me.
Queen have been the soundtrack to much of my life. They’re about to release a remix of their debut album, to make it sound as they always wanted it to at the time. Made me wonder what else we could remix to make it sound as we’d meant it to.
(25.10.24)
© Ben Quant 2024
Photo by Joel Chavarría on Unsplash
A pair of trainers. Comfortable.
Designed for action or
to signal aspiration.
Italian leather. Sharp.
Cut for the City worker.
Ready for business.
DMs. Scuffed, well-worn.
Also ready for business…
…but maybe not the same sort.
Flip-flops casually flapping.
Imagining lazing on
the beach or chilling out.
Precarious stilettos.
Ready to party, although,
they maybe removed to dance.
Bare feet. Also scuffed, well-worn.
Young, with many miles
already clocked. Tired.
(18.10.24)
© Ben Quant 2024
Photo by Michael Wright on Unsplash
I remember the cringiness
of watching parents dance.
Last night I realised
those dancers are now me.
At a party last night, I realised I’m not one of the ‘old’ people dancing…
(13.10.24)
© Ben Quant 2024
Photo by Baptiste MEREL on Unsplash
Counting sheep?
That’s what we do when
we want to summon sleep.
We close our eyes and count
That bundle of black and white.
1, 2, 3…
And soon the bleating fades
Becoming clouds that float
In a dreamy eyelid landscape.
That one resembles a friend
I used to know before,
In a school that used to be
Big but now is small.
4, 5, 6…
The red bricks reconfigure
Become our childhood home.
We gather, play that game
We invented once, one lazy
Summer holiday.
I count, you run. We argue.
We laugh and laugh and laugh.
7, 8, 9…
My kite drifts higher and higher,
Outlined crisply against
The blue. I join it, weightless
And fly across the fields.
I’m met elsewhere by someone
Who doesn’t belong, not here, not now.
This interruption passes
Unnoticed. For now it makes sense.
10, 11, 12…
I’m pedaling on my bike,
Feeling great and weightless.
Roaming at will. Freedom.
I absorb the neighbourhood,
Visiting its corners,
Extremities and folds.
Its blanket smothers me.
13, 14, 15…
The face of a first girlfriend,
Holding hands, first kiss.
Long hair, guitars, the band.
Aspirations that
One day I’ll find that note
And take it around the globe.
16, 17, 18…
That sheep reminds me of
The teacher who inspired me.
See, that plant he gave me
Is growing up and up
like Jack’s beanstalk, it
devours it all. We run.
19, 20, 21…
It’s funny how the faces
We revisit, are all
The old ones, childhood ones.
Black devours white
until the morning light
brings day, and all’s forgotten.
52 and counting…
It’s National Poetry Day, and the theme is counting. I set out to write a poem about the Parable of the Lost Sheep, which is all about counting, but the poem wouldn’t have it and instead took me elsewhere. Poems do that. Not so long ago I was reminiscing with my parents, I guess that’s partly where this poem comes from – I’m 52 by the way. The older we get, the more we seem to spend in our childhood.
(03.10.24)
© Ben Quant 2024
Photo by Christopher Burns on Unsplash
Seeking solace in numbers, they flock together,
Perched on the edge of clefts and aisles and chairs,
Whilst down below their mates peck through the clothes.
Though close, they never acknowledge each other’s presence,
Except perhaps a brief shared nod between them,
In recognition of their mutual plight.
And as each female emerges to the flock,
They twitter, preening hair, and staking claims,
Puffing their chests and hoping that she’s theirs.
There’s always great people watching to be had in shopping centres…
(28.09.24)
© Ben Quant 2024
Photo by Denver Saldanha on Unsplash
