Poem 111 – Circular Identity

Remember childhood years that stretched
Where nothing seemed to change at all
Except our teeth. Remember how
They used to hang on fragile threads
Forever, wiggled by the tongue
Until one day they disappeared?

Eventually a switch was flicked
New genes asserted influence
A sudden surge, the teenage kick
With child and adult overlaid
Doubly exposed awhile before
The hormone shock shook out the child
A whiskey burn that makes us wince

A newborn person stands before
A mirror wondering ‘Who am I?
Where is the manual that informs
Us how to be a grown-up in
This strange and unfamiliar world?’
Until one day a match is made
Where each completes the other’s question

A few years on the subject shifts
A babe becomes its object as
We ask who it might take after
Ironic really as our process
Of metamorphosis has ended
The circle finally has closed
And we’ve become our parents and
The children’s teeth are getting loose

Nature or nurture?
(28.03.22)

© Ben Quant 2022

Poem 104 – The Bridge

Spanning the Avon, Brunel’s triumphant feat
Stands proud above the watery cleft below
Industrial muscles clenched it takes the strain
Delivering passengers safety across

Stone feet stand firm upon opposing banks
But this world in between belongs to neither
In this suspended realm we stand apart
A liminal existence ruled by none

This dreamy space is transient despite
His mighty toil in sweat and steel to hold
This is the place for wistful lovers’ strolls
Where free, hot air balloons do ride the sun

Studies have occupied my time this week, but promoted by WordPress’ wordpromt ‘bridge’, here’s an ode to one I’ve got to know over the last few years.
(12.03.22)

© Ben Quant 2022

Poem 100 – Hancock’s Disciple*

Queuing, I wait to offer up my pint
Of haemoglobin, ordinary, red
And wonder how do interest rates affect
Deposits made? What bank charges apply?
Eventually I pass through triage and
Am strapped into my seat, arm bared, a cross
Between a theme park ride and electric chair
Before being lowered horizontal.
Engaging with the nurse in idle chat
Helps to distract my focus from the needle.
She looks a little stressed, perhaps she needs
It too. I hope it brightens up her day.
The jab. I wince feeling intrusion, pain.
It doesn’t last. Quickly relaxing I
Unclench and flow, my fingers moving to
My heart’s strong calming beat. I find it both
A reassurance and concern to note
How fast I’m done. I’m glad someone is there
To close my running tap and plug the hole.

To celebrate reaching my hundredth poem, I gave blood.
* Tony that is, not Matt! (https://www.dailymotion.com/video/x5hjsjq
)
(01.03.22)

© Ben Quant 2022

Poem 83 – Covid Guidelines

I’m still working on ‘The Visitation of Black Shuck’, it’s coming along nicely. In the meantime today I was challenged to rewrite the church’s Covid guidance to those hiring it for parties in verse. Over I quick cup of tea, I hastily threw this together… a bit of light relief

Our doors are open
Please come and visit
But don’t forget
We’re in a pandemic

Here are the guidelines
For us to follow
Please pop on a mask
And open a window

It’s not so wise
To gather in the middle
Don’t overcrowd
Spread out a little!

But if in the end
You’re stuck isolating
We’re more than content
To help rearranging!

(03.02.22)

© Ben Quant 2022

Poem 77 – WWW.

They say you can be lonely in a crowd
Feel isolated, solitary even, in
A throng of others densely gathered round
The tree, perhaps, resides in this position
Bearing so tall, so mighty and so proud
Aloof, and self-sufficient, self-assured
Possessive, owning its own patch of ground
The tree’s an isolated individual
Yes, even in a wood this seems the case
They congregate but each stands on their own
There’s no society found in this place
Where every trunk extends skyward alone
But this estrangement’s our misapprehension
Their interaction’s taking place elsewhere
As down beneath our feet there’s conversation
Within the soil a constant silent prayer
Communing in earth’s cold and damp, dark bed
Along pale fibres intercessions flow
Their whispers spread through mediating threads
Ubiquitous networks of fungal growth
No tree in isolation stands but each
By every other in the wood is cared
No one in need finds it is out of reach
As warnings, news and nutrients are shared
We celebrate the world wide web’s creation
Enabling arms to reach around its girth
But nature could have been our inspiration
Its wood wide web first stretched throughout the earth

I was first properly introduced to the concept of the wood-wide-web when reading Underworld by Robert Macfarlane (https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/40643657-underland). He writes of the infectious enthusiasm of Merlin Sheldrake (https://www.merlinsheldrake.com/), one of the leading researchers into this symbiotic relationship between trees and fungus, which allows communication across vast areas in ways which until very recently we were unaware of. Absolutely fascinating. His ‘Entangled Life’ is next on my reading list…
(21.01.22)

© Ben Quant 2022

Poem 76 – Red Lines

This morning drew a thin red line
Delineating night from day
Thus separating what has been
From what has yet to come our way
Meanwhile another thin red line
Emerged upon my plastic stick
Announcing I could play my part
In all this new day might yet bring

Another quick one today, after a full day of work and college. Brain full of toddlers, practical theology and commuter trains for anything more imaginative or deep!
(19.01.22)

© Ben Quant 2022

Poem 73 – Maintenance Illumination

The manual makes it sound so easy,
‘Loosen the clip, unscrew, replace.’
Experience shows it rarely goes,
As smoothly as this might suggest.
Where does the boot release switch hide?
Should the clasp casing hang like this?
How can I get my hand round there?
Which way is it supposed to twist?
In light of this, there’s no surprise,
That when our headlight faded fast,
I did not fix it on my own,
But asked the garage, I’ve learned at last!

I think this one speaks for itself! Car maintenance is never as straightforward as the manuals make it out to be…
(16.01.22)

© Ben Quant 2022

Poem 69 – Ancient Roots

I spat in a tube this morning
To find out who I am
And then that tube was posted
(Apologies postman!)
Of course there’s more to me
Than my genetic code
There’s everything that’s happened
On life’s long winding road
But I have always wondered
Where my tribe came from
Are my roots in Britain
Or do we have it wrong
Perhaps they are Germanic
Or Scandi, French or Switz
African or Asian
But whatever’s on my list
This fair land has shaped me
And others influenced
And through this cultural cocktail
My life has been enriched

I have always felt a ‘spiritual’ connection to the ancient past of our country, and am intrigued to know if my roots go back to the age of barrows and white horses, but whatever the result of my test, I won’t be disappointed as even through romantic eyes, I know this nation has never been racially pure but mixed and all the better for it.

(11.01.22)

© Ben Quant 2022

Poem 51 – Flux

We like to think that time is constant
The regular tock of a ticking clock
But in night’s depth that rhythm is
Vandalised
Jarred
Disrupted in strange discomforting ways that stretch the hours until you fear they must have
Snapped
Whilst dark
It’s light enough to see the time
Its face shines from the bedside table
As laying I wrestle with surreal
Fractured thoughts that flit and tussle
Uncomfortable limbs that ache and toss
And tasks for urgent morning attention
Yet unlike mine it does not age
But gazes fixed upon my weary
Brain that cannot comprehend
Its strange nocturnal ways

Not the best night’s sleep last night and no real idea why. Watching Doctor Who’s Flux finale got me thinking about the nature of time and brought last night to mind.
(05.12.21)

© Ben Quant 2021

Poem 50 – Chaos Theory

The rivulets flow gently down the window
Pane, where they mix and combine randomly
Forming patterns that will not be seen again.
Each stream a unique moment in time that
Once gone is lost and replaced by something
Else, new and similar but changed in strength
And form, each flow departing further than
The one that came before. Eventually
Perhaps the permutations will complete
And finally begin again, but if
They do the order will not match
Such, is this world’s complexity.

I opened the curtains this morning to the sight of rain running down our windows, reminding me of the famous scene in Jurassic Park where Jeff Goldblum’s character explains chaos theory by dripping water on his companions hand.
(03.12.21)

© Ben Quant 2021