Spirituality

Poem 327 – Selina

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For such a time as this
a woman placed perfectly
within the social web.

Restricted by her sex
but bold in faith and hope,
she rejected expectation.

Ensnared by Love she weaved
compassionately a net
to catch her wary peers.

With tea and conversation
she welcomed with her chaplain
noble and politician.

Meanwhile the miner, unschooled
children, the poor and sick,
also received her care.

And as this web was woven
a grace filled spell was cast
entrancing church and country.

I’ve been reading up on the finder of our church’s movement, Selina, the Countess of Huntingdon. What a remarkable woman, to me, the Esther of her age. She deserves to be remembered so much more than she is – and a better ode than this!
(19.10.24)

© Ben Quant 2024
Photo: Selina Hastings, Countess of Huntingdon by Unknown artist oil on card, circa 1770 NPG 4224 © National Portrait Gallery, London. Used with permission.

Poem 317 – Yesterday’s Mystery Visitor

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I encountered a stormtrooper
standing at our food bank.
I wasn’t expecting that.

He stood expressionless as
they always seem to be.
Who knows what he was thinking.

Was he plucking up
the courage to ask for help?
It isn’t always easy.

Or was he on a fact
finding mission? A watching
brief to assess choices?

Perhaps he was simply lost.
Again, that’s not unusual,
but I’m not so sure.

I didn’t know what to
say and so I asked
if I could take a selfie.

I’d like to think he smiled
under his helmet. At least
he didn’t shoot me back.

It’s a long story…
(09.10.24)

© Ben Quant 2024

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 309 – Two Worlds

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When two worlds collide
Just what is the solution
When the argument between
Defence and prosecution
Ignores what is offered
Ignores resolution
Is all about winning
Not peaceful conclusion
There’s no accommodation
And this generation
Remains stuck in the past
Follows the last
There’s no way out
No chance for doubt
An eye for an eye
And a tooth for a tooth
Take out the doors
And blow off the roof
The victims the innocent
Along with the truth
The children are crying
Their parents are dying
Following the firing
Of bullets and bombs
Hope is undone
By the use of the gun
Can’t we please all step back
Get life back on track
Put down all our weapons
And stop the parading
And all the lie trading
There’s work to be done
If we are to find
Peace in our time
When two worlds collide
And help them align

A bit of a word splurge, this one. Definitely not my usual style at all, and probably a bit naff. A case of starting to write, following the flow, and seeing where it took me. And this is it.
(01.10.24)

© Ben Quant 2024
Photo by Emad El Byed on Unsplash

Poem 302 – I Will Never

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I shall never scale the heights of Everest,
explore the alien ocean depths beneath,
or skydive from the breathless edge of space.

I’ll never run the fastest 100 metres,
hop, step and jump into the record books,
or climb the podium of the Tour de France.

I will never win the Nobel Prize,
for scientific discoveries as yet undreamt,
or finally nailing down the theory of everything.

My paintings will not hang next to Van Gogh’s,
my verse be ranked with sonnets by the Bard,
or songs be played upon the radio.

My name will quickly fade from recollection,
there will not be biographies of me,
nor obituaries typed up in The Times.

But I will strive to love and that’s enough.
For love is all that’s truly asked of us,
and Love will be my harvest and reward.

Today I’ve been thinking about what it means to be fruitful as I’ve been planning various Harvest celebrations I shall be involved in. Paul’s words in Galatians 5:22 came to mind, ‘But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, forbearance, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, 23 gentleness and self-control’.
(24.09.24)

© Ben Quant 2024

Poem 294 – I’ve Never Known Your Voice

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The view across the lake,
from the crest of Cader Idris.
The eyes of my life’s love as
she glances in my direction.

Feeling B.B. King’s vibrato
and Gary Moore’s sustain.
The emotional release of
an encore’s delighted applause.

The rich aroma released
from freshly ground coffee beans.
The taste of blue cheese. It shouldn’t
work but somehow it does.

Snuggling up on the sofa
and finding another’s world.
Talking to a gathered crowd
and holding them in your hands.

Discovering flamingo
mouths are upside down
so they can eat with their heads
between their distant feet.

Black and white images
formed within the womb.
The sight of freshborn signets
their feathers still damp with shell.

I’ve never known your voice,
not heard you talk out loud,
and yet, it strikes me that,
you’ve never really stopped.

Someone mentioned to me the other day that they’d heard God speak, and this got me thinking. I’ve never had that privilege, and yet…
(16.09.24)

© Ben Quant 2024
Photo NotFromUtrecht, CC BY-SA 3.0, via Wikimedia Commons

Poem 292 – The Weekend

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There’s nothing so sweet
As the Saturday treat
Of lying in bed
Such a lazy head!

Off to church Sunday morning
No doubt I’m still yawning
Singing songs to our maker
There’s nothing much greater

But when Monday comes
And the alarm starts to drum
And pounds in my head
Oh how I long for my bed!

A rare treat of a lie-in this morning. Much appreciated.
(14.09.24)

© Ben Quant 2024
Photo by Sander Sammy on Unsplash

Poem 290 – First Bite

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Freshly plucked, I wipe the apple
upon my jumper (it’s first outing
this year). It’s sharpness suits the air.

Chomping upon its core (I always
eat apples whole), I find myself
wondering about Snow White and witches.

A single bite is all it took
to curse our heroine with death-
like sleep that lasts ’til Charming comes.

Should I worry that like Adam
I’ve brought upon us Autumn’s sleep,
a sleep that lasts ’til Spring’s first kiss?

After taking assembly today, a local head offered me an apple from a tree growing on their grounds. It was green and tart but lovely!
(12.09.24)

© Ben Quant 2024
Photo by Nathan Dumlao on Unsplash

Poem 288 – Colour Coded

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Do you remember the days when cowboys
wore colour coded hats?
It made life simple when the good guys wore white and the bad guys all wore black.

Back then you knew who to cheer for and
just who you were supposed to boo at,
so when Star Wars came out it messed with our heads,
despite dressing Darth Vader in black.

He was the baddie, so this made sense,
but what about his sidekicks,
All dressed in white from head to toe –
just what were we supposed to think?

And now there is Batman, a hero in black,
haunted by demons and grim,
and what about the Hulk, who’s green and fueled
by a rage that lies deep within.

The binary was burst, the black and white blended,
our heroes, their creators, reflect,
’cause inside we’re the same, you and I, and the rest,
a colourful, motive-mixed, mess.

At our weekly drop-in lunch at church today, I found myself reflecting on the dress code in old black and white westerns. This poem followed.
(10.09.24)

© Ben Quant 2024
Photo by Bailey Alexander on Unsplash