Relationships

Poem 326 – In My Shoes

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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

Poem 311 – Sheep, Sleep, Dream

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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

Poem 306 – By the Fitting Rooms

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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

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