Relationships

Poem 304 – Those Eyes

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It took a while to see beyond the wildness;
those x-ray eyes that cut with lively looks
suggested something stern was brewing within.

To start, I turned away in self defence,
if I didn’t engage then I’d be safe,
but when you swung the battering ram walls fell.

It started with a song. You sang along.
Enthusiastically you raised your arms,
a crazed conductor rallying the troops.

By the end of the song the mood had changed.
The room that slumbered had now woken and
with dancing eyes you winked in my direction.

For an encore, you cracked a mildly rude
riposte then settled back into your chair,
retreating behind those glowering brows once more.

I sensed, those days, that gaze looked deep within.
Sadly, I never could reciprocate,
lacking the vision to penetrate beyond.

Once a month I take a service at a local nursing home. Today I discovered that since I was last there, they’d lost one of our regulars, one of the characters. I’ll miss him!
(26.09.24)

© Ben Quant 2024
Photo by Mandy Henry on Unsplash

Poem 297 – Fathers’ Snapshots

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I only know it’s me because it says so,
scribbled in blue biro in the corner;
a photo of a cardboard box with legs:
my legs, toddler legs, and shorts full of nappy.
Above the words ‘Solidev Ltd’, my eyes
and fingers peek through a crudely cut hole.

You tower over the top of the box, white shirt,
back buckled, a Seventies moustache upon your lip,
holding the box in place. My eyes are laughing.
Yours? They’re full of concentration as you
guide me across our manicured lawn towards
the camera, making sure I do not trip.

Later, those same hands propelled me as
I learned to ride, a love that now unites us.
The bike was secondhand but you repainted it,
made it new for me, and set me on my way.
Turning, your hands have gone, I’ve been released:
holding and letting go is a father’s task.

Next they’re teacher’s hands, hoiking children from
a writhing mass of bodies, only to find
me at the bottom. Your turn perhaps to want to
hide in a box? Alas there’s none, unlike
that time you proved you could do a headstand
inside one’s fragile walls – don’t try that now!

Next time hands and boxes mix, I’m married.
We’re on the move and you’ve kindly hired a van
and driven down to help us. I know how much
that stressed you out and yet you came regardless.
We work all day, the two of us, shifting
in silent concentration until it’s done.

Soon, another photo. No boxes now
but four generations: Grandad, Dad,
myself, my son. Like a flickerbook we move
through time as eyes are traced across the image
from left to right, and now we smile just like
our fathers’ captured faces did back then.

Dad’s birthday’s coming up and it’s got me reflecting on our past and some of its memorable snapshots.
(19.09.24)

© Ben Quant 2024

50 Years On…

Poem 296 – Conflicted Speech

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Conflicted.
A time to speak and a time to be silent,
a saying that says two ears, one mouth
demands twice as much listening as talk.

My grandad joked the secret of
a happy marriage lay in two words
not three. They were ‘yes, dear’. We laughed.

This compliant child tends to silence.
Perhaps a cuckoo supplanted virtue
with the instinctive desire for an easy life.

To speak too fast can barricade,
prevent the chance of conversation,
asserting mine is the only view.

But staying silent’s a game of hide
and seek, denying the other from seeing
within and closing the door on their face.

More seriously some words are weapons
a battering ram to be raised in protest
against words designed to divide us.

So how can I tell when is it best to take
my stand or hold my hand across
my mouth to keep these thoughts within?
Conflicted.

Someone asked me today if I found it hard to share my opinions because of my job. Perhaps, but there’s also a dash of simply being quiet with an aversion for conflict.
(18.09.24)

© Ben Quant 2024
Photo by Abhinav Anand on Unsplash

Poem 279 – Twenty-Five Years

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Twenty-five years,
three weddings and
too many funerals.

Baptisms in the garden,
sometimes warm,
but usually freezing.

Broxbourne foodbank,
winter night shelters,
Big Picnics at the park.

Soul Survivor,
Greenbelt,
weekends away.

Two schools and
numerous toddlers
toddlering.

Neverending rotas,
conversations,
unexpected meetings.

Five Advent candles –
so, who remembers
what they mean?

Pastoral visits,
Drop-In lunches
and nursing home services.

Three electric guitars
and three road bikes
pressed into service.

Church redevelopment
requiring prayer and
grants for funding.

So many faces,
places, emotions
and activities.

So many, so much
and yet throughout,
one God, one church, one family.

Today I celebrated 25 amazing years as minister at Wormley Free Church. What a privilege it’s been! These verses don’t do it justice, but I’ve loved being here and looking forward to where our life together as a church family takes us next.
(01.09.24)

© Ben Quant 2024

Poem 268 – Yesterday

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Yesterday
Our wedding day was many years away
Thirty of them to the very day
Oh, I believe in yesterday

Suddenly
Time has passed, how are we here today!
I’ve gained lines and look my hair’s gone grey
But I believe in yesterday

Troubles come and go
but I know you’re here to stay
when things go wrong, you stay strong
we hold on to yesterday

Hopefully
We’ll walk into the future, come what may
Knowing that our love won’t go away
‘Cause we believe in yesterday

A bit soppy/corny I know…
For Kate. Thank you.
(21.08.24)

© Ben Quant 2024

Poem 262 – Dampened Spirits?

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Today a hazy veil of rain
hangs over Perthshire’s gentle hills.
Yesterday’s yellow barley fields
have run, their colours washed away.
The buzzards’ mewling ceased, the only
whine belongs to windscreen wipers.
The drenching lasts until Dundee
where, even seeking refuge, we
are met by a generosity
that contrasts to the downcast skies.

Today is our day of rain. This hasn’t stopped if heading out to track the Dewar family’s passage through Dundee. What has most impressed me is the friendliness of the Scots, even on a day like this. (The sun came out mid-afternoon and the rain soon seemed a distant memory, especially when significant graves were found.)
(15.08.24)

© Ben Quant 2024

Poem 261 – Stones

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Tall stones
Short stones
Flat stones
Wonky stones
Old stones
New stones
Pict stones
Standing stones
Mossy stones*
Flakey stones
Funny stones
John Lennon’s stone**
Dewar stones
Stewart stones
Kilgour stones
Skull & crossed bones

*No rolling stones!
**Not the John Lennon…

Spent the day today exploring areas connected to my wife’s family history in and around Blairgowrie. This inevitably means graveyards. Lots of them.
(14.08.24)

© Ben Quant 2024

Poem 240 – A New Day

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The subtle scent of freshly woken grass
and crispness of the sky arrest me as
the door is opened on the dawning day.
Sparrows, already up, are catching the
proverbial early worm and the morning’s gossip;
the air is thickened with excited chatter.
Jostling students join them, calling out
greetings to newcomers in their growing flock.
I remember being in their number.
But now is not for melancholy thoughts or
nostalgic longing for carefree childhood days.
I wave goodbye to my departing wife
and note the soft cool air that curls around
my naked ankles; I’m still in my pajamas,
time to wash the night away and dress.
Cat Stevens comes to mind and Etch-a-Sketch
where with one swipe the old is wiped away
and the new is ushered in.

The smell of dew dampened grass greeted me as my wife left for work this morning, bringing with it the fading refrain of Morning Has Broken sung at a recent funeral.
(18.04.24)

© Ben Quant 2024
Photo by Sergio Otoya on Unsplash

Poem 238 – This Sea of Voices

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Their conductor enters, knowingly grins,
then turns and lifts his hands. They rise
a swelling wave, bass to soprano.
This tide is made of many voices
eddies, waves and tributaries
that make a single sonic surge.
Seal-like, a young woman sits
beached upon a chair, her smile
bubbles forth contagiously;
laboured on the land, she finds
her freedom once submerged.
A moustache adorning tenor of
germanic tendencies (surely one
of Einstein’s heirs!) leans on a stick
supported by an office worker
(grey, bespectacled), who as the waters
break across the stage becomes
reborn, his face quickened, alive.
Straight gentleman (stiff upper lip,
bow-tied and greying, manicured beard),
sings by an unexpected companion;
a retired rocker reliving Lennon
(round specs, white hair and rhythmic pose).
You sense he isn’t really here
but there, a 60’s Peter Pan
lost in the coastal pools of youth.
A frail bewildered ghost, unsure,
is led, then settles in the song,
her anchor amidst the fog of age.
Another woman stands serene,
a silver moon reflected in the
ripples, singing a sirens song.
Unified, this sea of voices
crashes upon our sands as one
then dissipates to our shingle’s applause
left ringing in response.

Today’s poem was inspired by a show I recently attended featuring a variety of choirs. I was struck by how the disparate collection of characters they were formed from could make such a rousing, living sound.
(06.04.24)

© Ben Quant 2024
Photo by Jelena Koncar on Unsplash